


Entropy

by lilith_morgana



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 01:51:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 72,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilith_morgana/pseuds/lilith_morgana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not always about holding hands. Sometimes it's about being two equally stubborn aliens out in deep space, finding more similarities along the way than either of you bargained for. A slow-building Shepard/Zaeed story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Alpha and Omega

Commander Shepard is so unimpressive at first sight that Zaeed nearly regrets the deal.

For two years the images of the self-righteous Alliance hero have been broadcast across the galaxy, been sent high and low, in efforts of trying to make people care about humans and politics and geth. It hadn't worked in the parts of the galaxy where Zaeed has spent the last two years – chasing down some dumb salarian swindler and a few red sand dealing batarians – but that doesn't say much. Nothing really gets through to those parts of the universe anyway. 

In the rest of the vast pisshole that is their brave new world Commander Shepard of the Normandy had made an impression. A big goddamn hero going down with her ship, saving her entire crew. Daft paragon bullshit that's serving no one in the end. Stuff of fairy tales. 

But this commander doesn't look much like the woman in the vids when she stands in front of him, glaring tiredly at the batarian on the ground. Zaeed is a bit disappointed. He had saved that little scene for her, wanting to make a trademark entrance she'd be forced to react to, setting the course of this mission and his participation in it, but she damn well gives him nothing in return. 

Months ago, in a seedy bar on Terra Nova, Zaeed had learned about Commander Shepard's legendary suicide missions from some starry-eyed marine who'd probably give his right arm to run off and play hero to get the same kind of stories to his own name. The idiot had banged on about odds of survival and tactics and did Zaeed know she had saved the entire Council? 

Zaeed hadn't known, and he hadn't particularly cared. Last time he checked, the Council was a bunch of self-important politicians who pretended they made the galaxy better while they were holed up on the Citadel, at a safe distance from actual _people_ , turning papers and making life hell for anyone who wanted to step over a few goddamn lines. He'd have let them burn for the hell of it. 

Then saint Shepard had died, like naïve kids do, and been resurrected by those with enough credits and balls to pull her back from the great void to fight their wars for them. Cerberus, of course. Who else? Twisted fuckers the lot them. Normally he would think twice about a mission orchestrated by them – the price is usually too high - but this time he had found himself signing that datapad against his better judgement. He has nothing to lose, after all. 

And somewhere before he had signed the contract – before he got to the fine print and all those sweet numbers – Cerberus had assured him that Shepard was up to impossible tasks. _We brought her back just the same._ They had even made the fighting bit sound like a decent spot of entertainment, a worthy challenge before retirement – to beat a few hopeless odds, escape certain death, things that still can make a mission seem more worthwhile than retiring in a big fucking explosion near some batarian colony somewhere. 

At the moment, though, this commander in front of him doesn't look like she'd be up to anything at all, least of all leading an expedition against an indestructible enemy, and Zaeed throws her a questioning glance. Whatever they did to her images in the vids, they made her look better than this. This woman is pale and hollowed-out and way too lanky to be imposing. Her bloody face isn't even healed yet, he notices, wondering how long it's been since they dragged her out of her grave. By the look of it, the answer might as well be _yesterday_. 

“You know the deal?” she asks, turning up her head to give Zaeed the same kind of weary look as she had given the prisoner. 

_Do you_ , he thinks but he doesn't say it on the off chance that she's still the badass they say she is. 

“Yeah. I hear we have a galaxy to save.”

The stern expression on her face falters a little before she nods, composing herself again. “Report to the Normandy. I'll be there in a sec.”

 

*

 

“I'm trying to remember how many Cerberus operatives I've killed,” Massani drawls when she firsts visits him in his quarters of choice – down in the starboard cargo of all places, she should have figured he'd be an obstinate jerk about that, too – and he eyes her thoroughly, sizing her up. 

“You don't say,” Shepard returns, uninterested. She wonders if he somehow expects her to be impressed. Pushing back an irritated sigh, she walks up to the desk where the surveillance camera looks back at her, displaying an empty mess, an empty corridor, an all but empty cockpit. This version of Normandy has no crowds, that's for certain. She drags her fingers over the smooth, blank surfaces and averts her gaze, staring into space for a moment. It seems so strange to be starting over when she's still not snapped out of her past. She shakes her head, ridding herself of the thoughts. 

Behind her Massani shifts position; there's a clattering, almost archaic sound of the old-fashioned details of his armour that clashes against his surroundings. Metal against metal. 

“Yeah. I lost count around fifty.” He makes a indistinct gesture before folding his arms across his broad chest again. He certainly puts on quite a show. Big, scary bounty hunter who probably has some intricate pattern of his conquests tattooed on his back but who would shit himself if someone put a gun to _his_ head – yes, Shepard knows the type. “I guess your Illusive Man is big on forgiveness.”

Shepard figures the Illusive Man is even bigger on finding expendable fighters for a hopeless cause, but she doesn't say that. Narrowing her eyes a bit as she's turning around, she watches him, the name on the dossier made flesh and blood. He's not exactly like she expected, yet she can't pinpoint what it is that differs. Waiting for her sleeping pills – orders from Doctor Chakwas - to have effect, she'd read through the records twice last night without finding any real answers to anything there either. He's an ex-Alliance soldier, not much of a leader but one hell of a shot, no family, no owned property, a long list of military operations of various kinds and sizes. 

A typical merc, through and through; he's kept himself alive for an unusual length of time, though, she'll give him that. Most mercenaries never reach their fifties but he has, obviously. _Ruthless and relentless_ was the description in the letter accompanying the files. It's too early to say what she can make of it, what he will agree to let her make of it, of _him_. 

Probably nothing. 

The only way to work with criminals, someone told her once, is to put them in your debt. She will have to remember that. 

“You know the rules, Massani,” she says, in a forced light-hearted tone. Even to herself her voice sounds lifeless. An echo of someone she used to be. “I give the orders, you follow them.”

“This isn't the goddamn Alliance, Shepard.” His face darkens slightly. “Call me Zaeed.”

She considers his request very briefly and not genuinely. 

“We head out to track down Doctor Mordin Solus first thing in the morning, Massani. Unless you prefer a pod, or this sad excuse for a bed, there's one for you in the crew quarters and if you have any questions Yeoman Chambers will take care of them.” 

 

*

 

They can barely walk three damn feet inside Afterlife without being bothered by someone who recognises his new commander, Zaeed realises quickly. How the hell she had time to save the galaxy, he'll never know. Seems like she's meddled in people's personal affairs as a fucked up pastime activity, running around poking her nose into everyone's business, making a equal number of enemies and friends. She'd make a worthless mercenary, that one. Doesn't know the first goddamn thing about leaving people alone or staying undetected. 

“So what if I buy prostitutes in my spare time?” an ugly bastard yells out as Shepard moves too close to him. By the look of things he's bought no less than two of them - two dancers who are circling around his table trying not to look bored. _Idiot._ It has always struck Zaeed as really fucking strange why you'd flaunt your whores like that, as though having to pay for it is a goddamn trophy. “I'm a good boy now, leave me the fuck alone!” 

“Shut it, Fist.” Shepard grunts back. 

Zaeed smirks. “Friend of yours?”

“I forgot to kill him once.” 

“Easy to remedy,” Zaeed offers. 

For a second Shepard looks at him, then her gaze travels to the other man as though she's actually considering it. If she hadn't been such a bleeding heart, he would have already snapped into position. 

“Nah.” She shrugs, pacing forward in the crowded bar. “He's not worth the ammo.”

Shaking his head, Zaeed follows. 

The bar is crowded. Omega is crowded. Even the gigantic ship is too crowded for everything they drag back to it after a day's work here. It tends to rub off on you like nothing else in the galaxy, the kind of shit they have in places like this. He's itching to get out of here, can almost see Vido slipping further away for each day they spend nursing sick bloody batarians and killing vorcha; the Illusive Man had been very convincing about allowing Zaeed to finish his other business, but Zaeed isn't holding his damn breath, that's for sure. 

Shepard looks restless, as well, when they are forced to wait for the recruiting mercs to give them entrance. 

“What are you doing?” she snaps at Lawson. They've snatched a table near the door where a few people have begun to line up for the mercs who are still nowhere to be seen. Arriving fashionably late for their own recruitment drive – that's what happens when you put retarded assholes in charge of things. 

“Checking out the area, Commander,” Lawson replies; her right hand hasn't left the holster since they entered this place. “Back in a minute.”

Zaeed watches her walk away – well, he almost exclusively watches her arse, to be entirely honest. Genetic design, he concludes to himself. Has to be. Perfect doll, incredibly fucking gorgeous, too perfect to actually be attractive. Then again, Zaeed always did like them goddamn flawed. 

When he returns his attention to the commander she rolls her eyes, unimpressed. 

“Oh, come on.”

“Hey, if you looked like that I'd be staring at you, too,” he says, holding up his hands. 

“If you stared at me like that, Massani,” Shepard says, coolly, “I'd shoot your wrinkly balls off.”

He snorts but can't hide his own amusement. Hell, there's some fire in her after all – a sense of humour too, judging by the way the corners of her mouth curl upwards. 

She sits cross-legged on the couch, her armour is out of place here among the dancers and the rugged old leather seats, but nobody care, of course. It's Omega. You could wear a corpse as a goddamn coat here without anyone raising an eyebrow. 

Zaeed notices the N7 plate, has forgotten that piece of intel on her if he ever had it, but it's not like he's surprised. Of course the special hero had belonged to the special forces. The N7 recruits were joyless bastards the lot of them, as far as he recalls. Suits her, Zaeed thinks, remembering the pompous speech she'd given over the intercom the other night – something about sacrifice and honour and duty ripped straight out of some old tome in the Alliance's archives. The glory of dying like a dog for one's country. It seemed that daft concept never got old. _The Commander expects no less dedication from you than she does from anyone else, Lawson had informed him during the debriefing._

Zaeed sneers. 

“So why did a goddamn little saint like you help someone like Helena Blake to kill her way to the top?” he asks a moment later when they still haven't got off their arses to actually do something useful and _still_ are waiting for Lawson to return. Zaeed's picked up his lighter from his pocket, flicking the gas flame back and forth. 

Shepard's quiet for a bit, her clamped jaws working like a machinery. 

“It wasn't like that,” she says eventually. “And I'm not a saint, Massani.”

“Oh yeah?” He raises an eyebrow, staring unabashedly at her, trying to read her expression. Running into Blake had been unexpected to say the least and Zaeed prefers to keep tabs on who's who and who does what and where money is. Occupational habit. “That's not what I've heard.”

“I don't really care what you've heard.” 

“So what about Blake?” He asks again, sharpening his voice slightly. Shepard's so damn illusive, dodging his questions – _any_ question she doesn't want to answer. Why would she need to answer questions when she's got the whole crew thinking of her as the second coming, bending over for her every suggestion without even realising it. Clever bitch. Reminds him of an Alliance lieutenant he knew once, a long time ago, just before he started hunting down bounties to make a living. Bright girl. Tough. Never backed down. They had taken on a whole damn Turian scout team alone, just the two of them; Zaeed had managed to kill one of them with a grenade, snitching a sniper rifle from the alien and then it had been one hell of a fight, two marines blasting straight through the enemy ranks from opposite directions. A fucking _magnificent_ battle. Two against thirty-five. He had almost been tempted to stay then, for a day or so, before the Alliance pissed him off again. 

That lieutenant - Aida, Alida, Aino, he can't remember and it does matter (Ava, he knows in a part of his memory that refuses his own efforts to destroy it; her name was Ava, her parents came from Iran and she pronounced his name in a way that could spin his goddamn mind around). That lieutenant, the very same, had tracked Vido and him some years later when they were finishing a mission for a crime lord on the Citadel, pulled a gun on Zaeed and told him she'd turn him in. Vido, always a paranoid asshole, had shot her before Zaeed had even thought of another way out. Bloody waste.

Shepard sighs loudly, pulling him out of the past. “You always this annoying?”

“Let me guess,” Zaeed leans back in his seat, deliberately ignoring her rhetorical question. “She talked you into helping her out with some big fucking trouble and you swallowed the bait, thinking you could make her see the error of her ways?”

“Hah.” His suggestion is met with a cold sneer, but it is probably closer to the truth than she wants to admit. Zaeed knows her type, he knows it well and he's about to mention it when a shadow crosses the commander's face and something seems to snap in the air around them. 

And then, swiftly, before he has even considered the possibility of it, Shepard stands in an abrupt movement, kicking the table towards him so he's wedged in between the seat and the tabletop. She presses it against him even harder and he can nearly feel his kidneys protesting. When she leans over it, searching for his gaze, her smirk is a dark shade of triumph. 

_Bitch._

“Don't patronise me, Massani.” She speaks softly, her voice low and close; he can feel her breath against his skin. “Do you hear me?”

For a second, Zaeed's mind buzzes with irritation. 

He doesn't _need_ this shit. He doesn't need to be forced into a goddamn team of stupid bastards with a collective death wish; he doesn't need a commander telling him what to do. It doesn't work like that. _He_ doesn't work like that – he accepts the mission, he completes the mission and then he gets paid for the mission, no questions asked. Simplest equation in the galaxy. 

Shepard remains frozen, _waiting_ , towering over him with that smug smirk glued to her face. Her Illusive Man had given Zaeed upfront payment that had made his mouth water, not nearly half of the promised sum but enough of a teaser to make it seem worth the gamble, even if the odds are against them, even if this saintly woman is going to raise the stakes further day – to be a pain, if nothing else. 

“Do you hear me?” she repeats in the same tone. 

Zaeed inclines his head, not breaking their eye-contact. He wasn't born yesterday; he can play a goddamn game if she wants to. “Loud and clear.”

“Good.” Shepard nods curtly before she walks away.

 

*

 

She's having a good day, all things considered. 

As good as days get on Omega, anyway, and definitely a vast improvement over the shattering frustration that has coloured the last two cycles. Today she feels _alive_. They've killed a lot of mercs to get to Archangel and her face is hot and flushed, her hands warm with pent-up movements and her chest pounds, a familiar, strengthening rhythm. 

And it's Garrus. _Garrus_ , and she can't stop smiling. 

“Good work, everybody,” she calls out as they clear the upper floor once more; they're regrouping, minding minor injuries and stuffing their guns with fresh thermal clips. The turian looks over the mess of the room and directly at her, smiling, too. Behind him, Miranda is alerting EDI. 

Shepard holds up the Firestorm, turning it around to get a quick scan of the damage. Defunct. Definitely defunct. It's a shame, really. She had just started to like the new upgrades to it. 

“Incoming!” Massani roars suddenly, in the middle of that deceptively calm moment that always follow a tough battle of this kind. The critical moment, Shepard thinks, seething, where you'll either snap back into fighting or end up in pieces. 

Of _course_ it's a damn gunship. They're trapped on stinking, pest-ridden Omega and she feels like she's waded through a whole ecosystem of filthy diseases already, her shotgun is torn to pieces by a krogan and now there's a _gunship_ hoovering right above their heads. 

Before she knows it, quicker than she can grab her pistol and get there, Garrus is thrown off his feet, shot and knocked out and Miranda has to run for cover as the massive beams from the ship hits her shields. Everything takes an abrupt turn at that. Their advantage that had seemed fairly decent, more than enough to take them out of here unharmed at any rate, is shrinking with every wasted second. _Fuck._ Shepard spits a long thread of curses and exchanges a hasty glance with Massani thinking _now is the time to prove yourself, merc._

A fraction of a second later he's running towards the gunship, firing his gun and Shepard has time to scuttle across the room, grabbing a grenade from one of the corpses and she throws it right before Massani ducks - she throws it and misses the intended spot but it's still enough to weaken the kinetic barrier. 

There's a sudden gap in the tight string of events as the fight sort of stills; Shepard doesn't allow herself a second thought before she runs back out, right in front of the gunship, ignoring the sharp cry from Miranda and then Massani, louder and hoarser: 

“Get the hell out of there!” 

Not looking back, Shepard kneels down, directly underneath the massive belly of the ship and then Massani is by her side, for god knows what reasons, emptying his shotgun into a tear in the armour, a tiny weakness that she hadn't even spotted but is immensely grateful to see. Shepard takes a moment to focus, a moment of directing her energy in the very same direction before she lets a full-on biotic pull out of her body, through her flesh and bones and her outstretched hand. The ship quakes, first a little and then, as she presses on with a volley of shots and then another one, it rocks back and forth, losing its defences one by one.

Finally, in an ear-splitting thunder, the gunship explodes. 

It explodes and Shepard is thrown back, her right side injured and sore and her head a mess but for a few seconds everything is fine again, a good fit for her good day. Everything tastes of the adrenaline rush and a small rivulet of blood leaking from her lower lip and she's just blown up a gunship with a _pistol_ so right now, right here, all the terrible things from the cycles since her resurrection are filtered through _this_. 

And she remembers, in a harsh, short breath, why she fights. 

“He won't make it.” Massani stands over Garrus's sprawled body on the floor, arms crossed. 

“He will,” Shepard replies, matter-of-factly, because she remembers, too, who she is and how they do these things under her command. “Zaeed-” He looks at her, a strangely unreadable expression forming on his face. “Help me carry him.” 

“ _Damn_ it, Shepard,” Miranda says later in the shuttle. “That was impressive. We took down all the mercs.”

“We did, yes.” 

They'll re-spawn like insects, of course, but there's no need to mention that right now. With Garrus reasonably stable given the circumstances and the sky darkening around them and the prospect of getting the hell away from this planet within reach, there's no need. 

No need at all. Shepard stretches out, resting the back of her head against the seat and looking straight ahead. Beside her, Zaeed is uncommunicative and composed, but when she glances sideways, she imagines there is something there between them – a sliver of respect, of... something _else_ perhaps – and he seems to notice it too because he folds his arms and lets his gaze wander back to where she can't catch it. 

Shepard smiles thinly to herself. 

 

 

\---------------  
A/N: I know Bioware claims Zaeed is 40. I've chosen to overlook this fact.


	2. Medals and scars

Shepard cleans her own guns. 

Unlike most high-ranking officers Zaeed has known, she sits there with her weapons every time he sees her down in the mess, maintaining the guns for everyone to see. Such a goddamn show-off. Experience tells him that the only two reasons for a CO to get her hands dirty with gun oil are, in order: paranoia and idealism, or at least some twisted fucking version of the latter. Every officer a simple marine, we're all equal and holding hands in the Systems Alliance. When he mentions it, she chortles humourlessly but doesn't look at him. 

Zaeed leans against the table, glancing down. There's so much about her that doesn't add up and he's reluctantly intrigued to find out the whys and hows of her legendary reputation. He's seen her patch up plague-infected batarians like a selfless bloody nurse, and then march straight back to the Normandy to bark orders over the intercom. And the facts remain: somehow this woman has almost single-handedly defeated enemies that could make flotillas full of seasoned soldiers piss themselves and here she is, looking just like the average Jane. Damned if he can't be intrigued by _that_. 

“So which one is it, Shepard?” he asks. “Paranoia?”

Of course, Zaeed wouldn't trust anyone near his _own_ guns and using the word paranoia to describe the reasoning behind that doesn't cut it (try _because I was shot in the head, or and then left to goddamn rot_ or _people are nasty fucking bastards_ ). But then again, he isn't an Alliance marine. Or a saint like Shepard.

“Habit,” she says. She's a poor liar; her face twitches with the effort of trying to remain calm and composed. 

“Not a chance.” Zaeed scratches the back of his neck. 

“Don't you have a long-winded story to share or something?” Her hands dance over the casing in quick, expert strokes. There's a frenzy to it that suggests she's angry, that whatever she's letting her body do now is just a cover for what it really wants to do. Which is, Zaeed figures, to beat someone up. That's usually the case for him anyway, and soldiers will be soldiers. “Lectures on the ghosts of missions past. Isn't that why you're here?”

They've just visited the Citadel. 

Or _Shepard_ has just visited the Citadel, ordering the rest of them to stay out of her way while she'd scampered off to handle some business there and when she returned to the ship she had looked like she was ready to go off on a homicidal spree. 

Zaeed isn't sure why he's there exactly, so he grunts something non-committal but remains where he stands. Truth is he's bored out of his skull, being holed up here with the vague promise of going after Vido “as soon as we can, you can count on it” like a goddamn mantra he can't escape. And it's not like Normandy offers much in the way of company – the only one who's spoken to him at length is that yeoman woman, but her prodding and poking at his chequered sodding past is more than Zaeed can stand. Daft girl, all wide-eyed surprise and cheerful smiles. He's never been one for cheerful women. _Surprisingly well-adjusted for someone who has seen so much violence and destruction_ ; he had overheard her review of him the other day. He sneers at the thought, wondering what the hell she had expected. A skittish husk, bemoaning his crimes or a sadistic sod with some intricate plan to torment and murder the rest of the crew? 

Violence and goddamn destruction. 

Zaeed is pretty sure Shepard has seen – and caused - her fair share of violence and destruction, too. He wonders if the yeoman-shrink finds _her_ well-adjusted. 

She looks up at him, finally, frowning when she realises he's still there. 

“So,” Zaeed says, folding his arms across his chest. He feels no particular desire to go hang out with the idiots down in the crew's quarters and this is the best he can currently do. “How's the Council? Has someone pulled the sticks out of their arses yet?”

“Didn't check.” Shepard flips the gun over, grimaces at it and puts it down on the table. She shifts position in the chair and turns around so she's facing him. Her face looks less of a disaster now that the wounds are nearly healed, leaving amazingly little scarring behind. Cerberus apparently doesn't think commanders should have any visible proof of their experiences. “It was a brief meeting.”

“What did they want?” He isn't sure why he's asking and she considers the question for a long time, as though she's not sure if she should answer it. Maybe she shouldn't. They're not exactly friends and she's hardly the kind of person who'd humour him just for the hell of it. 

“It wasn't really their idea to meet with me at all,” Shepard says. “Anderson volunteered them.”

“Yeah?” Last time Zaeed checked, David Anderson had been a stupid bastard, too full of himself to accept that he wasn't ever going to be a big hero or make a fucking difference. But he supposes an arrogant marine can rile up enough politicians to make a career out of it. 

“Yeah.” She smirks, a faint expression of some unidentified emotion gleaming in her eyes. “It didn't do much for my cause that I almost missed the appointment, though. Had to go down to C-Sec to confirm my status as alive.” 

“Why the hell did you do that for?” He frowns. “Are you going to announce your mission in a vid, too? Pop in on the goddamn news?”

Hell, Zaeed isn't going to be surprised if he opens the extranet tonight and is greeted by Shepard's face. Breaking news: Commander Shepard is back and on a secret quest to bring down the Collectors. 

“I don't _do_ undercover missions,” she mutters, as if she can read his mind. 

Then she falls silent, face closed and averted. Zaeed watches a group of tech crew approach one of the tables near the cook, waiting for today's serving of bland shit and tasteless sludge. It doesn't matter how many ingredients they order from the Citadel, the meals here are still various degrees of disgusting. _Earth food, why the fuck have humans given that up?_

“Eight ships,” Shepard says suddenly. Her voice is dark, thick with emotion. “We lost eight ships. I asked Admiral Hackett to risk his entire _fleet_ to save the Council.”

“And now you're surprised to learn they're ungrateful sons of bitches?”

“No,” she answers in a completely different tone. Her hand on the table has turned into a fist and Zaeed can see her knuckles whiten, her skin stretched furiously over them. “I'm surprised to learn how much it _hurts_.”

Zaeed raises an eyebrow. He's not used to confessions. And judging by the sharp wrinkle forming between her eyebrows, it doesn't look like Shepard is used to confessing either. It adds up, he supposes. All of it, strange as it may seem. She's surrounded by people who need to trust her judgement and morals. People she cares about. Zaeed doesn't need any more goddamn motivation than the credits and the adventure and Shepard, he knows, couldn't care less about him even if she tried. 

There's freedom in not giving a shit, in having nothing to care _about_. He leans back, taking her in. She seems slightly caught off guard by her her own admissions and he can't deny that it's satisfying to watch her squirm. 

“I'm guessing you gave them hell?” 

Shepard shrugs, a stubborn jut to her jaw. 

“They reinstalled me as a Spectre,” she says then, and he first thinks it's a joke but of course it's bloody not. Just when he's got her figured out, when he thinks he can make some sense of her, she pulls some incredibly stupid shit and he's rendered speechless. Zaeed Massani, _speechless_. He shakes his head. 

“Captain Anderson – _Councillor_ Anderson - represents humanity,” Shepard says in a very sharp, precise way, forestalling any comment from Zaeed. “Anything I do reflect back on him.” 

“So now you're a Spectre again?”

“Yep.” She nods. “Looks like it.” 

He snorts, half-incredulous, half-amused by her attitude towards it all. Like she's so damn sure she'll end up winning that it doesn't matter how she gets there. That no fucked-up idea in the galaxy can stop her so she might as well give all of them a try. It's almost impossible to resist that kind of cockiness and he begins to understand the way her crew make puppy eyes at her most mundane of orders. Not only can she convince her them that they want to follow her to their deaths, she can even fool them long enough for it to seem plausible that they'll _return_. Cerberus has spent their money well. 

Zaeed eyes her, eyebrows raised, still. “You sure go through a hell of a lot of trouble just to be detected, don't you?”

“Huh.” Shepard seems to catch herself, like she's just realised something. “Well, I suppose you're right about that,” she adds, thoughtfully. 

Zaeed shakes his head again. “Crazy bitch.”

There's a grunting sound, more like a bark than a laugh, and for a second Shepard looks ready to whack him over the head with her gun but then she starts _laughing_ – a proper goddamn laugh, loud and unexpected. She's still laughing when she gets to her feet, raising the attention of the scattered groups of crew around the nearby tables. 

“Bastard,” she says as she walks away, slapping a hand on his shoulder in passing, but there's a distinct lack of vitriol in the word. “Thanks for the chat.” 

 

*

 

Even as a commander, you never really get used to holding a life in your hands. 

Not like this anyway. Not in the raw, brutal way that smells of metal and loss and a peculiar kind of pain that she can't properly place or explain. 

If this had happened a cycle ago Shepard knows as she stands with her gun pointed at Zaeed's forehead, aiming for the side where he hasn't already been shot, she would have pulled the trigger without a second thought. 

One bullet and it would be over. She's a precise, efficient shot and Zaeed is the kind of man she usually gets rid of. 

He has almost made her blow up a building full of innocent people in a revenge mission that's so completely out of line that her hands itch with the desire to wrap themselves around his head and crush it against the piece of metal he is trapped underneath. She isn't sure she _wouldn't_ have done it if fate had left them alone. 

Nobody in this galaxy will miss Zaeed Massani when he dies, of _this_ she is sure. 

She has cost him twenty years of his life, or so he claims, and she thinks _what a fucking pathetic waste of a life_ to spend it all tied up in dreams of revenge; it's that thought that yanks back her hand eventually, it's that thought that pulls her weapon away. 

Zaeed looks at her without saying a word. She doesn't ask if he's disappointed in her bleeding heart this time as well. If he is, she doesn't particularly want to know it. 

“Are you coming?” she asks instead, nodding towards the empty seat beside her in the shuttle back to the Normandy. 

Limping badly, he comes – unaided by the others - to her side. 

Later she stands outside the medical bay for a long time, holding a datapad and shuffling her thoughts around the heart of the matter. It's been a horrible day for them all, she supposes. Even if _some people_ – her supply of sympathy for idiots who bring on their own misery is running short – have very few redeeming qualities and even if she's stopped shouldering the private dramas of everyone in the galaxy a long time ago. Even now, even here, Shepard still cares about her crew. 

Damned if she knows _why_ , but she does. 

The stench of medical quarters is always the same, she thinks distractedly, as she steps inside Doctor Chakwas's office. The same depressing cocktail of sweat, chems and blood, of misplaced rests of adrenaline from battle and frustration at the idea of not being allowed to get back there right this instance. 

Shepard swallows. She's never been a fan of this setting. Not since childhood and definitely not since the detection of her biotics which prompted needles and scans and secret nods between doctors, using their own coded language for speaking about her behind her back and over her head. 

There's no reaction to her entering the room. 

Zaeed sits shirtless on the examination table, glaring at Doctor Chakwas who's cleaning a nasty injury along his back, the edges of the wound flaring red and infected under her touch. It looks like something flutters under the skin, a trembling signal of unrest. She winces. All the pain spots of our skin; human bodies like helpless maps of human weakness. Even Zaeed's. 

He looks old in this room, under the pale white lights of the medical bay that seem to be digging underneath all layers. Old and tired and _marked_. She wonders what sort of life that can make someone so determined, her mind skimming over similarities and points of contact at her will. He had pointed them out himself, earlier. _A stubborn enough person can survive just about anything._ He's tense, wound tight; when he turns his head it sends a ripple down the muscular chest where old scars run across and between newer ones in a strangely fascinating pattern of skin and muscle. In every sense of the word, body and mind, Zaeed is little more than a weapon for hire. The weird tingle of pain creeps into her again; she brushes it away with a little grimace. 

“What the hell are you staring at?” Zaeed catches her gaze and for a while it flares up, like she's pushed him over the edge of some unknown equilibrium. 

“You.” Shepard doesn't look away. “How are you doing?”

“He needs a few stitches,” Doctor Chakwas answers in his place. 

“It's just a goddamn _scratch_ ,” Zaeed grunts, clenching his jaws as the last stitch is being placed on his back. “Sorry to disappoint you, Shepard.”

She sighs, squaring her shoulders and deciding that she mustn't let him throw her off balance. Which is easier said than done because Zaeed Massani has that certain something that keeps pissing her off, something that worms its way into her head and unnerves her at the strangest of times. There's so much crap you have to dig through with him. So much mercenary posture and macho bullshit and detached, uncaring callousness that she's rarely got the patience to hear him out or catch him at a more transparent angle. When she does, at times, he always surprises her, though not always in a good way. 

“I'm sorry,” she says, taking a few steps to the side, then back again. Fuck, she's pacing. Of all the stupid habits she's trying to break herself of, pacing is the one that really sticks. “Well, no, I'm not sorry that you didn't get to kill a bunch of people caught between you and your _grudge_ -”

“Shepard,” Zaeed interrupts, his voice dangerously low. She ignores him. 

“It's not how we do things under my command. We don't waste lives. We're not mindless killers.”

“Right, then.” He throws back his head, adjusting his penetrating gaze on her. If he had been a dog, she thinks, he'd have bared his teeth right about now. “I'm going to get seats for when you discuss ethics with the goddamn collectors, Shepard.”

“Don't be an ass.” She feels a surge of anger heat her up, hot and thick, tickling the back of her throat. Then she throws the datapad at him and if he didn't have a good thirty years of putting his reflexes to good use, injured or not, it would have hit him in the face. “I have put some operatives on tracking down Vido, Cerberus style. He's a sadistic crime lord, for all I know and I _am_ sorry he escaped. You'll get your second chance, don't worry.” 

Zaeed examines the datapad quietly, his fingers running along the screen as though he's hell-bent on skimming through all the information before saying a word. Shepard notices that Chakwas is watching them both, a curious expression on her face. 

“Why?” Zaeed asks eventually. He sounds downright sceptical. 

Of course, if the roles were reversed she supposes he'd have a grand manipulative scheme up his sleeve. Perhaps she ought to have thought it over a bit more, adjusted the gain to her advantage. Or not. She's not used to commanding mercenaries and petty criminals. And she's not sure Zaeed qualifies as either right now – although she has no word for what else he would be. 

So she merely shrugs, deciding it gives her that illusive edge she knows she's both famous and disliked for. 

“I keep my promises,” she says. 

“Yeah?” Zaeed looks up from the blinking letters and numbers. Stubborn, almost defiant. “So do I.”

We'll see about that, Shepard thinks, but she doesn't say anything. When she walks out, right before she closes the door behind her, Chakwas cracks a thin, knowing smile.


	3. Port and starboard

Dying, someone had told him once, nothing brings people together like a good spot of dying. 

Aboard the prison ship Purgatory they nearly die a hundred goddamn times over, staggering out of it as one maimed body, holding on to each other. Shepard and Zaeed drag the thief out while the turian fusses over Shepard's injuries like a bloody nurse. She's been thrown half-way across a burning facility, wrecking her helmet and breaking her nose in the process. _Again_ , she points out when the turian asks about it. 

And all this for a new recruit. 

Zaeed, spitting out a mouthful of his own blood and feeling a familiar nausea rise in his throat, doubts that the crazy biotic bitch is going to be worth it. 

“That was too close,” Shepard says afterwards, in the cargo hold where she's popped in without waiting for an invitation. As usual. She sits on his desk, in the opposite side of the room, cradling a mug of coffee in her hands and looking around at his scattered belongings the way she does. It's like she counts them every time. 

He shrugs. “We live.”

“I like margins.” She sounds tired. “Wide, generous ones.”

Her eyes dart around the room, probably devouring every detail because even if she's a shitty undercover operative, she doesn't miss a thing. Always a commander, tired or not. Zaeed is about to point out that Shepard won't save the galaxy with the help of wide margins – deliberately ignoring the bit about how she already did, once – but damn if he is in the mood for one of her self-righteous sermons. 

“Hell of a place,” he says instead, meaning the prison ship. 

Shepard nods. “To say the least.”

Despite what many idiots may believe they know about him, Zaeed has never favoured sadism. Sure, torture works if you want someone to talk – incidentally, so does pointing a gun to someone's head, threatening to pull the trigger. Except the latter is much cleaner and faster. Subjecting someone to goddamn torture doesn't add anything; it's too messy, cuts too deep. No one walks away from torture unchanged – not the subject, not the torturer. If he has learned anything about it, it's that it's never worth the price. 

When he mentions it to Shepard, she gives him a strange look and he sneers. Of course. But then, as he is about to ask if she thinks he also, by the way, flays human babies and sells them to batarian slavers in the Pylos Nebula, Shepard suddenly nods. 

“I agree.”

He will never bloody figure her out. Not her mindset, not the ideas in that legendarily brilliant brain of hers and certainly not the goddamn confessions she keeps throwing at him. 

Because then, out of nowhere, she tells him about Akuze. Tells him over her coffee, like it's an ordinary war story of the kind they tell each other to keep from the worst cases of boredom in the long transit hours. It's what everybody does. Every soldier is a goddamn liar and a braggart because every soldier tells stories. To maintain the distance, to put things between now and then, to keep others out. Only difference is that Shepard's war stories triumph everyone else's pathetic little tales and Zaeed can't decide if he likes her for it or wants to throw her into the garbage compressor to get rid of the sound of her voice. Much to his frustration, it's probably not the latter. 

“Cerberus?” he asks.

“Yeah.” Her face is neutral, her hands still curled around the mug of coffee that she doesn't seem too keen on actually drinking. 

“Damn.” 

“Got me famous, didn't it? I walked out of it with a few scars and a scary reputation.” Shepard smiles briefly. She raises one hand to the side of her face in a motion that appears to be built into her goddamn body, all unconscious and smooth – before catching herself with a small grimace. “I had a scar to prove it once,” she says, lowering her hand again. 

“Cerberus likes their dolls.” Zaeed shifts position, folding his arms across his chest. Not that she makes a good doll, he thinks with an inward laugh. Too fucking angry. He's pretty sure dolls are meant to smile, not let their fists break your face if you step out of line. Besides, anyone who designed a doll would give it a bigger rack than the one on Shepard's lanky body. 

“I declined the option to get more skin-weave implants,” she says, putting down the coffee mug to hold her hands up in the light. 

“Yeah, why would you wanna heal quicker?” Zaeed remarks, but he can see her point. You don't want too much machinery in your body unless you can trust the engineers – he's always stayed away from it, doesn't want to end up a goddamn bot in someone else's hands. 

Shepard ignores him, leaning back against the wall and crossing her legs, feet dangling in the air.

“Cerberus removed them all. Every single one of my scars.” She purses her lips, suddenly very grim-looking. With a little grimace, she cranes her neck to look at the surveillance camera instead of at Zaeed. Then she glances up at him, giving a short bark of a laugh that sounds incredulous and devoid of humour. “Skin like a peach. Mind you, I had earned each and ever one of them.”

Zaeed shakes his head. Soldiers – himself included - really are a fucking insane breed with a collective mind like goddamn animals; everything they do is just an endless quarrel about pissing in the biggest territory and earning the right to do so. Hell of a life. 

"You'll get new ones," he says, not realising until he's said it that she probably won't. 

He wonders what it would be like, not having any scars. There's hardly a goddamn spot on his skin that doesn't look like it's been run over by a Krogan army. He hardly minds. Scars are memories, they are _proof_ somehow. Of what you've done, how you've lived. For twenty years he's stared at the ugly fucking shape on the side of his face, thinking about Vido. Like a reminder, like a goddamn _beacon_ it has been there and he has grown reluctantly fond of it because it's kept him awake. Alert. 

Not that it had mattered, in the end. 

There's a soaring anger at the thought, prickling the back of his mind but he bites it back. Shepard had a point somewhere in her sanctimonious bullshit – he has to focus on one thing at the time. What they're doing here, what they're up to, it's too goddamn big to allow any dabbling on the side. Even Zaeed can see that. 

Shepard's gaze is distanced, fastened completely on her own arm, eyes following the faintly red lines there. He wonders how much cybernetics she's made of now, wonders if she even knows. Cerberus wouldn't stop where the usual guide-lines suggest they'd stop, of course – it's the reason Zaeed is both suspicious of and reluctantly impressed with the bastards – because why would they? It's hardly the time to ask Shepard about it, though. Not if he wants to keep his head on his shoulders and he's fairly certain he likes it to remain there for a while longer. 

“You know,” he says, deliberately dragging out the words. He knows it pisses her off and he enjoys teasing her. “This mission takes me back.”

This is how it always goes when he wants to get rid of her. No young commander wants to hear stories from old bastards like Zaeed and yet Shepard insists on running her tight little crew, asking questions she doesn't want answered and stopping by his quarters. He usually can't stop himself. She's fucking hilarious when she battles her own desire to slap him in the face. 

Tonight she's different. She usually cuts him off or retorts with a sarcastic comment about his old age or useless leadership qualities ( _When your own men hold you down and try to blow your brains out, Zaeed, you're a pretty shitty commander._ ) 

Tonight she gives him no such thing and there is a trail of something in this change of behaviour that he can't push away, that _insists_. 

“Yeah? Tell me,” she says and there's no trace of irony in her tone. At least none that he can goddamn _hear_ and he figures that's the same thing. Zaeed hides his genuine surprise behind a jeering grin for a moment before he continues. 

 

*

 

"Do you have any opinions on the Krogan?" 

Shepard is perched on the desk next to the surveillance device down in the Starboard cargo where Zaeed still resides. She is fairly certain by now that he's picked this place to annoy her, but she can't be bothered to force him to accept a pod or a bunk bed with the others. If this is the territory he wants to brand as his own, then so be it. It makes so very little difference in the grand scheme of things that he's an infuriating bastard. 

In the grand scheme of things, the Collectors are roaming the galaxy. 

In the grand scheme of things, the Illusive Man has just told her about Horizon and there's an ill-boding lump in her chest because nothing good can come of this. Six hours of travel until they arrive; Shepard thinks of Virmire and the Citadel and _Commander Alenko_ and her stomach lurches. 

“Krogans? Nasty fucking bastards on the battlefield.” Zaeed observes her, eyes thinning slightly. “Not too bright. Ugly as hell.”

“Yeah,” she squares her shoulders, trying to soften her muscles. She's slept badly lately, spread out in strange and uncomfortable positions in her luxurious bed with the posh sheets that smell of Cerberus and chems. “I meant _the_ Krogan. Singular. I intend to open his tank.”

Zaeed gives an approving nod, still eyeballing her with a half-smile that she can't quite interpret. She's given up on that a long time ago anyway. Trying to figure him out, that is. After Zorya they've had a mutual understanding – a silent agreement of pragmatism on his part and professionalism on hers – and it's good enough. More than she expected back on Omega and more than he deserves, probably. 

“I would never have thought you the type to ask for advice, Shepard,” he says after a while.

“I'm not.” She shrugs. “And if I were, I wouldn't ask you.” Zaeed snorts at that. She ignores him. “We're going to Horizon and I'm going to bring a Krogan. The rest is just about technicalities.”

“So why are you here?”

She shrugs once more. It's a good question. Shepard jumps off the desk and walks up to him, hands on hips and her best poker face in place. There's something _about_ him. The most annoying fucking bastard in the galaxy and she stands here, reluctantly at ease with him, as though they're playing the same game without even trying to. And perhaps that's it. Some kind of twisted mutuality she hasn't found anywhere else. There's no one _else_ , for either of them and you can't spend your life on a huge ship like the Normandy without at least someone. 

She wonders – but decides not to dwell upon - what the hell it says about her that Zaeed Massani of all people is her confidant. She doesn't even _like_ the man.

“Figured you'd want to be there when I open the tank.” She tilts her head, meets his gaze. 

Zaeed laughs. “Need a goddamn volunteer to take the first blow, do you?”

Damn it, he always does that. Most people – certainly most of her crew - would have humoured her by playing along, she thinks as the merc sizes her up, eyebrows raised as he waits for her to make the next move. But not him. Their game is different. If she didn't know better, she would almost think she was flirting with the old bastard. 

“Better you than me,” she offers. In these surroundings, sharply clean and starched, full of shining surfaces, Zaeed looks refreshingly inappropriate. He stands out. Tattoo ink and gun oil against sterilized steel; cocky rudeness against protocols; his entire persona breaks out of most roles she had defined beforehand and she shouldn't approve – she definitely shouldn't _appreciate_ it – but the weight of the damn universe is on her shoulders again and she takes her small comforts where she can find them. 

“Right.” There's something strangely appreciative in his eyes. It makes the tightness in her chest ease, if only momentarily. 

“Come on then,” she grins mock-seductively and places an elbow in the middle of his chest before crossing the floor and heading for the exit. “Krogan fodder.”

“Lead the way,” he grunts back. “Crazy bitch.”

If she didn't know better, she would almost think he means it in an affectionate way.


	4. Now and again

The air on Horizon is difficult to breathe. 

Which, of course, is just a lame metaphor since Horizon is a perfectly habitable colony, but Shepard still checks her the oxygen levels a second time as they make their way back through the empty facilities. _Damn you, Joker, hurry up. Land already._ A dull ache throbs persistently behind her eyes. 

The whirl of impressions seems to pick up speed with every step she takes: the Collectors and the uncanny way they get under her skin like the beacons had done back when they fought the geth, the low buzz of the swarms, the empty houses and the frozen colonists – it all piles up in her somewhere. Nests in her, hardens into a great big lump of frustration that she must get rid of somehow. Finding outlets for the things she encounters used to be one of her undeniable strengths before, one of those things that had set her apart from other marines early on in her career, one of the things that has always _defined_ her. She needs to get back to that. 

_You're one of the most composed human beings I've ever met,_ Kaidan had said once. Coming from _him_ of all people, that certainly says something. Except today she's misplaced her damned Zen. 

Something catches in her at the thought of Kaidan, the thought of them, of then. As though he's served as a catalyst for every single cell in her that wishes to protest against her current lack of choice, everything that she can't change spinning around inside, making her fucking nauseous. 

_You betrayed the Alliance. You betrayed me._

She shakes her head, as though he's still there to see it. 

And then there's the prickling realisation that all of this has been too convenient, which brings a whole different kind of nausea; shuffling her thoughts and trying to make some sense of them, Shepard feels the first stab of genuine, red-hot fear since she woke up in that damn lab. 

The Alliance are no saints, the Council doesn't hesitate to use questionable methods but Cerberus, she knows with a sinking feeling in her chest, Cerberus will stop at nothing.

She's theirs now and she realises it with full force as they reach their shuttle; leaning forward with her hands on her she pauses, inhaling deeply. There's a rivulet of sweat running down the side of her face and she wipes it off and swallows, a taste of bile in her throat. 

Zaeed walks past her and gives her a searching glance. 

"Saving half is better than nothing, Shepard." 

She looks at him, expecting to see a mocking glint in his eyes but she finds nothing there, nothing beyond that unexpected calmness he possess which is one of the reasons she brings him to these scenes in the first place. Jack and Zaeed, rage and controlled aggression to flank her own biotics and strength. 

"Let's ask the colonists what they think," she growls darkly and he shakes his head. Wrong member of the crew for that sort of talk. She keeps forgetting. If she wants to pity herself, she has to go to Garrus - Zaeed flat out refuses to pity her, himself or anyone else for that matter and it's another reason he's here, to remind her that she doesn't wallow. She straightens up. "Get moving, all of you, we've got a lot of questions for the Illusive Man."

Inside the shuttle, Shepard unfastens the collar of her armour with a little grimace, trying not to give in to the sensation of being too warm, of suffocating. It's just her head but the feeling's real even so. _Damn it._ She's been so careful over the years, she thinks. Always careful, even as she had been assigned to the Normandy shakedown run where she was no longer treated as the weird and too-young N7 brat but a hero, a leader they put their faith in. Intoxicating as that had been, she kept her distance, kept to the protocol. When you sign up, Shepard knows, they lay an unspoken choice at your feet: you can become a ranking officer or you can remain a friend, a fellow marine. There is no way to be both. 

"Blast from the past down there?" Jack looks up from the task of wiping her gun clean; it's pretty impressive how she manages to sound bored even when asking questions, Shepard reflects briefly. 

"Commander Alenko was part of my team on the original Normandy, yes." Her voice tightens around the words, she feels them shrink in her mouth. "What of it?"

She had handled the situation badly. Hell, she's handled everything even remotely connected to Kaidan badly, especially looking at it from his perspective. Half the galaxy had known about her no-longer-dead status before he did. She had even given a damn interview before she had spoken to Anderson at the Citadel, before stumbling into the Council to be reinstalled as a Spectre - without as much as sending Kaidan a message. _Because I didn't know what the hell I should say. It's not like I've returned from the dead before._ There are no explanations for this. No words that can carry the massive sprawl of confusion that is her current existence and instead, she finds, she keeps quiet. 

"Didn't seem too friendly."

"Friendly enough, given the circumstances." 

Jack snorts, apparently unconvinced. 

"He's a good and loyal man," Shepard adds in a final tone; she stretches out, folding her arms across her chest in a gesture that she hopes exudes nothing but neutral calmness. 

Kaidan had always been one of those many later she used to keep stored in some part of her brain. Later, when they had wrapped up the mission. Later, when they finally had their extended shore leave. Later, when her life would not be such a hopeless mess of tangled duties and loyalties and damn _protocol_. It simply hadn't seemed as urgent as the other things they were faced with, not as much of an issue as plotting a course to Ilos or picking up the pieces of everything Saren destroyed on his way through the galaxy.  
Sure, she had been interested and standard procedure flirting among marines is part of what makes the military operations bearable after all, but beyond that, she hadn't found it in her to let anything happen.   
Back then, it had still seemed plausible to have an afterwards to look forward to. 

Back then, she had figured they could wait. 

But the universe doesn't hold its breath for people like her to get their shit together, Shepard thinks, looking out at the stars and moons around them as they travel through the sky. And likely it's for the best anyway. 

"Tough battle down there." Zaeed's voice rips through the wall of her thoughts and there's a touch of something curious in his tone, just a little edge of undefined emotion that makes her glance at him. His gaze is steady. "Like shooting into a goddamn beehive."

She nods, grateful to be talking again about things that don't twist in her. 

"I think one of those swarms jammed my M-9," she says.

"Yeah?" Zaeed gives her a sceptical glance. He's complained a few times that she lacks the patience to repair her weapons which she supposes is a valid objection from someone who keeps a rusty old rifle among his most treasured belongings. Shepard doesn't have a sentimental relationship with any of her guns even if she'd go as far as to admit that some of them have _personality_. "Let me see that."

He reaches for the gun and she hands it over.

“Man, I wanna _crush_ something,” Jack announces with a growl. The biotic energies are still shivering beneath her skin; Shepard can feel her own do the same, but she figures she has a better hold of them. 

“Save it for the enemy and we're good.”  
　  
“Got it.”

The strained attempt at civility brings a smile to Shepard's lips. There's nothing to smile about but she has to. The severity behind it is too big to be released. When she looks at Zaeed she notices that he, too, offers a small smirk.   
　  
　  
*  
　  
　  
Illium is as clean as Omega is filthy and Zaeed has nearly forgotten what it's like, not being chased around by impending diseases on top of the mercs and the stinking vorcha. Even crime is clean on   
Illium, wrapped up in hypocrisy and goddamn lies. 

"Only tight-ass people here," Kasumi mutters beside him; Zaeed throws her a glance. Clever girl, that one. Wrapped up in her own personal business, but clever as hell and lethal on the battlefield. She seems to have earned Shepard's trust, as well, probably because she comes so unattached to everything. "Traffic, lights, commerce and asari everywhere."

They're having food at Eternity while they're waiting for a local to show up with leads on a new recruit, and Zaeed sits with his back against a table full of drunk co-workers who are ranting about their new boss. 

"Lots of mercs here, too," Zaeed says and orders chips and something else labelled _'suitable for humans'_ from the menu. He notices Shepard's doing the same thing with a displeased frown. She dislikes the lack of choice outside Citadel space, he remembers her telling him once. _Takes the fun out of eating._ "They hole up right outside town. Recruit young asari by the dozen. Great place to expand your business if you're not afraid to have it overrun by biotic specialists."   
　  
Later, when the commander of the Normandy has kept them all waiting for hours while she's paid some old friend a visit, she returns to them at full speed. She taps something into her omni-too and strides across the massive floor. Zaeed's eyes latch onto her as she approaches.   
　  
There's something new to her since that bloody colony, a new angle, a hard glint in her eyes that reminds him of steel and rocks. She's determined, of course. Hell, they all are. Even the crazy biotic and the krogan are different since the run-in with the Collectors. You don't walk away from seeing shit like that without becoming aware of how goddamn serious their mission is, you don't return from something like that without a new focus or without dropping a few unimportant hang-ups and issues along the way.

But there's something else there, too. Some last shred of her old self being shot to hell, probably. He doesn't really care to find out but here they are, _waiting_ again, so he might as well amuse himself with guessing games.

Most famous human being alive and Zaeed has long since stopped pretending he isn't allowed to be fascinated by that, by learning what makes her tick. It's practically part of the goddamn job description anyway.

"Miranda's gone to meet with a contact here," Shepard says, turning her head to look at him, as though she's tuned in on Zaeed's thoughts. "We should be able to follow the lead in the morning if all goes well. For now, you're all dismissed."

The group quickly scatters around him; Zaeed debates whether he should head back to the ship for some sleep or hit one of the bars for some liquor. Booze isn’t half bad here on Illium, which is a good thing, given the corporate bastards that come with it. He fucking loathes the corporate world. He hates the sheer mass of it and how it spreads out over everything like some nasty form of cancer – you get a job to take down some low-ranked scum and end up inside a tangled web of crime where it’s just as likely you’ll kill the wrong person and get a bounty on your own head. Still, some of his best missions have been to kill businessmen - to blow their brains out and run their life's work into ruin. It doesn’t always pay well but it's goddamn satisfying to make the smug bastards squirm. Amazing what you find underneath the fancy exteriors, too. Almost every goddamn time. Slaves, illegal drugs, genocide – and all of it carefully hidden behind the neat piles of cash until someone pokes around a little too much. At least on Omega they’re honest about it.

He looks at Shepard who devotes her full attention to a datapad in her hand. When she notices that he hasn't left, there's a little tug at the corners of her mouth.

"Wouldn’t have guessed you’re the type who works overtime, Zaeed."

He shrugs. "If the pay is good enough."  
　  
Shepard snorts, but it comes off as something close to laughter. “Hate to break it to you, but you're not getting any credits for conversing with me.”

“Yeah? Your Illusive Man included extras for unforeseen trouble. Figure this includes socialising with the commanding officer.” He intends it as a joke but Shepard's face darkens visibly as he mentions the bastard in charge and his comment falls flat. 

It hadn’t taken a genius to work out the details of their last mission, Zaeed thinks as he watches her. Cerberus had dug up her past and lured her into a trap and it had been enough to make the stoic Alliance hero lose her reserve, at least momentarily. They had obviously found a button to push, which is goddamn impressive considering how difficult she is to get a bloody fix on, but he isn’t sure it had been an advantageous move on their part. A calculated risk, Shepard had spat after her debriefing with the Illusive Man. _He can take his calculated risks and shove them up his ass. You don’t fucking mess with me._ Her record is one hell of a boring read full of heroics and impossible missions and remarkable deeds and he has no doubt they’ve all been measured thoroughly in some initial phase of the Lazarus project, but Zaeed wonders if Cerberus has counted on that dark streak of fire in her. It’s going to be goddamn interesting if they haven’t.

"Ferris Fields went missing recently." Shepard rubs her forehead and drags her thumb over the edge of he datapad, as though it contains further intel. "And Cerberus is playing games with the Alliance to keep them out of the way."

“Doesn’t change our objective.” Zaeed folds his arms, leaning against the cool wall behind them. 

“Doesn’t mean I can’t _care_ about it,” she retorts, sharply. Then she shakes her head. “Sorry. I haven’t slept well.”

Zaeed find himself wondering when she last slept well, but he doesn’t ask. Twenty years later and he still wakes up with his mouth dry and his head full of bullets. He guesses it would have to be pretty much the same for her and guesses, too, that she’s the kind of person who doesn’t like to talk about it. 

He shrugs, letting his eyes take in the immediate surroundings. Or well, his eye. The fake one no longer works the way it’s meant to and he can’t be arsed to do something about it. Seems kind of counter-productive to invest a shitload of money in a suicide mission anyway. He’s not goddamn Cerberus. If he survives this he can replace everything in his body with gold before he blows himself up. It’s a thought bizarre enough to keep him amused. 

"If you want distractions, I think that asari over there wants to either buy you a drink or invite you home, Shepard."

"What?" She turns her head, frowning when she spots the swaggering woman. "Oh. Right. Yeah, I don't do that."

“Don’t do what? Drinks or asari?” 

She finally puts away her datapad and looks properly at him. Apart from the visible lack of sleep, her face gets more and more similar to the one on the Alliance posters with every passing day. 

“Discuss my lifestyle choices with you, Zaeed.” 

_Lifestyle choices, my ass._ At least he’s no longer goddamn Massani. 

They look at each other for a while with that trail of whatever the hell they have developed since Zorya when he had wanted to push her into the goddamn flames for letting Vido get away and then that point afterwards, a clearly defined moment when he had looked into the barrel of her gun and thought _fine, you lead then, bitch._ It’s the first time in his career he’s ever admitted that kind of defeat, but he isn’t about to let her know _that._ She’s vain enough as it is. 

“Fuck,” she mutters eventually. “I need a holiday. Someplace warm.” 　

"What you need, Shepard, is a heady goddamn drink."

She gives a little laugh, a small and dark kind of laugh that passes quickly. 

Say what you will about Shepard and her god complex, at least she isn't some uptight puritan who expects them to stay away from everything and sleep with their guns loaded and ready - hell, the last bit she'd never have to point out to her current crew anyway. Zaeed can bet all of his Cerberus-smelling credits on the fact that he's not the only one who keeps his gun beside him in bed and who just waits for the inevitable moment when it will be needed even aboard their goddamn ship. 

“If I start drinking tonight,” she speaks the words with longing. “I won’t stop until I’m on the floor.”

Zaeed raises an eyebrow. “Yeah. So?”

“I wouldn’t trust you to carry me back to the ship, Zaeed. And I don’t want to end up in a dark alley somewhere. That’s just no way for a starship commander to go.”

He can’t tell if she’s taking the piss or not, and he feels an inexplicable stab of irritation at her comment.   
There's no doubt in her selection process when she picks her team, yet he gets the feeling he's still being chosen because he's the most expendable, not because she trusts his skill or his motives. Ironic, given the tangled fucking web of loyalties the other crew members are part of. They're all slumped together with their previous lives bleeding into everything they do here and now. Zaeed comes with nothing. He is loyal to nothing more than his own set of ideals – vague as they may be even to him – and his mission. It annoys him that she can't see it, though he doesn't know _why_ he gives a shit about it exactly. Perhaps because camaraderie is the norm for her, stupid bloody Alliance bitch that she is; it’s nowhere near the norm for him. Yet he’s the one trying here – and for fuck knows what reason, too. Zaeed grinds his teeth. 

“Your loss,” he says, shrugging. “Bourbon’s goddamn nice on Illium.” 

Shepard sighs but averts her gaze, as though she can’t decide if she’s annoyed with him or with herself. And he’s a lot of things, but not a bloody shrink, so he turns on his heel and starts walking in the direction that promises noise, booze and exotic strippers. 

Before he’s even rounded the corner, her voice calls out for him. 

“Hey, Zaeed?”

He stops, but doesn’t look back. “What?”

”I’ll have one drink. One.” 

Not bothering to hide the smirk on his face, Zaeed turns around, waiting for her to catch up. 

 

*

 

Three drinks later, his legendary commander is a little less sharp and a lot better off. 

They stand on some balcony, several feet above the bar where a heavily painted asari is selling assorted combinations of liquor from a tray; behind them a group of quarians on pilgrimages occupy a couch, laughing more loudly with every sip of their Illium’s Treasures. 

At least Zaeed’s stayed away from that nasty fucking drink tonight. 

So has Shepard who’s taking the last mouthful of her bourbon. Turns out she can listen to advice once in a while. Who’d have goddamn thought? 

When he points it out, she laughs. 

“I don’t need advice.” Her eyes have a devilish gleam in them but there's a small gash, a little bit of something more serious slipping through. 

“Right.” He scoffs. 

“Have you _seen_ my service record? I've got more special commendations than you've got scars and to top it all I also come with 'excellent interpersonal skills'.” She spins the empty glass in her hand, catches it with the other. “That's what it says. Hard to believe, huh.”

The biting edges around her words aren’t lost on him, but she smiles at him before she waves for another drink.

Zaeed drinks up as well, savouring the sensation of the vodka burning in his throat. Krogan spirits. Goddamn foul, but strong enough to make it worth it. 

"I had this girl once." He lets his gaze roam the dance floor below them. The crowd’s thinning out. Illium isn't like Omega where nobody leaves a club until they've had their share of either drugs or sex or both, in almost vulgar abundance. People here have work to do in the morning. "Asari. Good head on her shoulders."

Damned understatement. Eira had been the most brilliant woman he'd ever laid eyes on. Goddamn gorgeous too. They had a good thing going for a few years – some shared missions, some shared profits, a few extended stays in fancy hotels along the outskirts of the Terminus system. Then Eira had re-evaluated her priorities in life and sold Zaeed out to the Blood Pack. He had asked her what the hell she was doing and she had smiled, almost regretfully. _The bounty on your head is gigantic; I'm sure you understand._

_Goddamn bitch._

Shepard runs her hands over the handrails, tapping them softly to the tunes of the music coming from the bar. For a second she appears completely relaxed, then her posture straightens again and she looks at him. 

"What happened?" 

"She decided she wanted credits instead," he says, shrugging. "The Blood Pack made her an offer."

There's a faint smile on Shepard's lips. "That's crass even for someone who voluntarily dates a guy like you."

"Yeah." He gives a short laugh, letting her insult pass. "Amazing woman, though. But that put a sour end to the relationship."

Zaeed sees in the corner of his eye how Shepard downs her new drink in one go, grimacing slightly as she puts the glass down on the small table beside her. The commander really _can_ drink. He's always suspected she was the type, nobody can be that controlled without a few vices. He follows suit. 

“Hang on, I'm _confused._ ” Her gaze zoom in on him again, slightly more hazed than last time he checked. Then again, he's getting blurred too. “What was the moral of that story?”

“Hell if I know,” Zaeed says, scratching the back of his head. His thoughts are getting frayed, it's definitely time to stop drinking now. “My stories don't have any goddamn moral.”

Shepard looks puzzled at first, as though she has to consider his words, then she bursts out laughing and this time it's genuine, a ripple of laughter tearing her properly arranged composure apart; he watches with fascination and a little stab of contentment. 

“Time to get back to Normandy,” she says eventually and lets go of the handrail, but not without a bit of a struggle. “Before – oh _shit._ ”

She staggers once more, almost tripping over something on the floor and Zaeed grabs her arm. Cursing some more, she glances up at him as she regains her balance. 

“Before?” he asks when they're walking down the stairs. 

Shepard chuckles. “Before you start making sense, you crazy bastard.”


	5. Ghosts

They’ve barely left Illium – with two extra crew members and a hell of a lot of supplies – before they’re thrown into a new mission. 

“Samara and Miranda, you two hold this point with the others.” Shepard jumps out of the shuttle and waves out the rest of the squad. “Zaeed and Jack - with me.” 

Team Hardcore, Zaeed had overheard the helmsman call them recently, in a too-loud whisper over the table down in the mess hall. Probably a goddamn blessing the krogan pup had been absent and not heard his name omitted from this exclusive crowd. It’s true that Shepard has divided their team into smaller fractions for most of their missions and Zaeed is quite impressed by her ability to solidify their overall performance by this strategy. 

Too bad the goddamn Collectors won’t give a shit about Shepard’s ability to co-ordinate her crew. 

“What the fuck is this?” Jack hisses as they begin making their way down the dark corridors. 

“Looks like a giant insect hive.” He checks his rifle a second time. 

Their orders had been clear enough – check out the Collector ship that intercepted Turian intel claimed to have been abandoned since they took it out. Without causing any hull breaches or mass effect disruptions, no less, if the Illusive Man is to be trusted. Zaeed isn't inclined to put his faith in bastards he cannot even meet in person, and it appears the commander isn't, either. 

“Too quiet,” Shepard says in front of them, her voice betraying the slightest hint of apprehension. “Too suspicious. I don’t like convenient missions.” 

“Yeah.”

It's like walking inside a goddamn cemetery, except the dead might not even be dead and the creepy echoes that ripple through the air may very well originate from inside those pods they are surrounded by. He doesn't bother to hide his own disgust. 

When EDI confirms that this is the vessel they encountered on Horizon and the vessel that brought down the original Normandy, he can hear how Shepard draws a sharp breath. _Convenient_ doesn’t even begin to describe it, he thinks, looking over his shoulder, trapped in the notion of being at the epicentre of something that’s just about to spiral out of control. He can feel the adrenaline silencing everything else in him, thrumming in his hands that are holding his gun, leaving a taste of blood at the back of his throat. 

They press on, stumbling over an open pod with what looks like a goddamn Collector mummy. Shepard pokes at a pod with the front of her sniper rifle and Jack winces when she stirs what appears to be a bloody clot of human hair. 

There's something slipping underneath his thoughts about this mission, one inch at the time. Something that paints him as a human, part of a _collective_ ; there is something in this mess that forces him to feel the significance of it thunder in his goddamn veins too, for the first time since he was a kid and stuffed with all the bullshit they make kids back on Earth believe: soldiers are brave, the Alliance are the good guys who fight the good fight, aliens are wired differently. Zaeed shakes his head. He hasn't bought that cheap propaganda crap since then, he isn't about to start now. The Earth isn’t his home, the human race is just as fucked up as any other and he isn’t prepared to die for its continued existence any time soon. Sure, he cares more about the fate of humanity than he would ever care about asari or krogan, but that's just basic psychology, it doesn't mean a bloody thing. The endless galaxy has always appeared to him as just a stream of lives – human lives, alien lives - orbiting in and out of each other’s spheres and the sole point of it all seems to be to find a way to survive it and make a living somehow. 

Still, this is unlike _anything_ he's seen. 

A moment later, they step into the heart of the ship and that something making its way inside him comes to a halt at the sight. 

"Son of a bitch." He stops, looking up at the ceiling and down along the sides, seeing nothing but pods. A goddamn planet of them, way too many for the Collectors to stop at the sparsely populated colonies in the Terminus system. And, Zaeed realises with a sinking feeling, they don't _intend_ to. "They're going after Earth."

“No.” Shepard is right beside him now. “Not if we stop them. And we will.”

He looks at her where she stands in the ship that killed her last time around, pointing her gun at the empty spaces ahead. 

It does something to you, surviving everything. Zaeed knows this better than most people. It alters you to dodge the dangers every time, to evade and escape – to walk away even from death. It’s a subtle deception of your brain to learn that the bullets will discriminate. That they will discriminate _you_. Every one of those times will remove the seeds of fear, bit by bit, until you're a reckless idiot who runs headlong into everything and survives through sheer ruthlessness. It makes you the kind of man who takes on suicide mission just to check if anything is different this time; it makes you the kind of woman who wakes up on an operation table and boards a ship, scars still unhealed, to fight an enemy nobody has ever defeated. 

His commander gives him a brief nod – as though confirming something unspoken - before she takes the lead in their approach of the rest of the ship. Zaeed follows. 

They're both less mortal than they ought to be. 

But in this place, looking at each other without saying another word and without enough information to make sense of the bigger picture that he reckons has to exist somewhere, they are just endlessly, hopelessly goddamn _human._

 

*

 

Shepard doesn't lie during the debriefing and it causes a small stir among the Cerberus watchdogs. 

Even the spineless puppy barks a little at her remark that the Illusive Man had thought it necessary to trap them all on a Collector ship. For a long time, Zaeed had believed that life as an Alliance soldier is a shitty deal as far as covering for your superiors goes, but being loyal to Cerberus must take the goddamn cake any day.

Zaeed lights a fag down in his quarters and smokes it in front of the ever-moving space around them, waiting for the sermon from EDI. He's barely had one drag before the AI reminds him of its presence. 

“Mr Massani, may I remind you that this is a non-smoking-”

“No, you may not.”

“Mr Massani-”

He uselessly flickers some ash in EDI's direction. “Shut the hell up.”

Goddamn Cerberus and their goddamn technology. If it turns out they've planted a tracking chip in his brain while he's been sleeping, he won't be the slightest bit surprised. 

One of the true benefits of being an independent contractor is that you rarely have to worry about the intent of your current employer. You're nothing to them, but they're upfront about it. They’ve got no real reason to want you dead as long as you’re useful, but no obligation to keep you alive either. Fair enough. The self-righteous pricks in the Alliance pretend your life is worth something to them and Zaeed has never been able to stomach such bullshit meekly. 

To Cerberus, Shepard is the most expensive individual project in known galactic history and they’re not going to be satisfied until they’ve used her to every extent possible. 

He frowns at his own irritation as his thoughts skim over these facts. 

“There's a detailed report with footage in the regular channel,” Shepard says as she strides into his quarters, during the second and less official debriefing. This is her trademark, he thinks, one of the things she's famous for. He's recently heard the engineers rave about that time when she had played poker with them for hours. _Dedicated to her staff, she is._ Zaeed wonders if she has a schedule for her social routine as well. He wonders where getting drunk with him on Illium had ranked on her to-do list. 

“More news from your Illusive Man?” 

She scoffs and makes an angry gesture with her hand that he interprets as 'hell no'. 

“We'll await reports from the derelict Reaper,” she says. “Should take a while. I won't go near another trap like that until we're certain we have at least a slight chance of making it out alive.”

“Slight chance?” He takes a deep drag of smoke, savouring the taste. “What the hell happened to your wide margins?” 

Shepard makes a half-hearted shrug. He notices her looking at the cigarette and makes a similar shrug himself. The corners of her mouth twitch a little. 

“When I learned that the species who erased the Protheans have been chasing me and the rest of humanity around for two years I gave up on margins altogether.” 

There isn't much he can say in response to that so he is quiet and finishes smoking instead. 

“This is way above my pay grade, Shepard.” He is almost surprised to hear his own words and judging by her gaze that is fixed on _him_ now that he's stubbed the fag out, so is she. 

“Meaning what?” She folds her arms across her chest, leaning against the wall as she's observing him. 

“It's not what they normally pay me to do.” That might just be the biggest goddamn understatement of the century, Zaeed thinks, letting his gaze roam over all the souvenirs he keeps dragging across the the galaxy. “But even I know a galaxy-shattering revelation when I see one.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Brings some goddamn perspective. Makes what I do seem small.”

“This is going to be big enough.” Her tone is neutral and flat, but he can sense a questions beneath the surface. Shepard is a lot of things, but she's damn well never subtle. “If you want to compare, I mean.”

Zaeed looks at her for a while without responding, trying to figure out what she wants from him this time. Back on Omega she had seemed unusually relaxed about his recruitment whereas the Cerberus officers all but pissed themselves at the thought of a mercenary on their precious ship. He'd figured she didn't have the luxury of choosing for a mission that screams bad business as much as this one does and he had figured, too, that Shepard had the experience to know the difference between a merc and a goddamn murderer. Now he suspects she's just confident enough to take all the help she can get because she knows nobody would ever dare to sell her out or ambush her. That's why the destructive little bitch down in the hole on lower deck gets a free pass with her ramblings about piracy – if it comes down to a fight between them, Shepard would end the biotic, hard and fast. That's why the krogan roams around outside his tank, too. Zaeed had been around for the opening, after all. He had watched her being shoved into the wall by that thing as soon as she let him out. He had threatened to kill her and Shepard had merely stared back at him, a blank expression on her face, and goddamn talked him out of it while simultaneously pulling a gun on him. Afterwards Zaeed had spotted her slipping into Doctor Chakwas's clinic, grimacing badly, but she hadn't said a word about it. Most people would shit themselves at the thought of being tossed around by a krogan; Shepard had swallowed the pain and bested him at his own game. 

She'd end Zaeed too, hands down. And she knows that, she has known that since Zorya. But she's still here pressing for something and he's standing here, as well, and he's been uncertain of his own motivations ever since he stepped inside that damn Collector nest. _Fuck this._ He shakes his head, shoving his thoughts away. Some things aren't worth twisting your own mind over. 

“The pods, the colonists, goddamn _Earth_ ,” he says and he means it, in a strangely overwhelming way. “They're not doing that shit to us,” 

Shepard looks at him and nods, a passing recognition forming between them. An agreement, as though the two of them would make any goddamn difference whatsoever. 

Only Shepard could make it seem like they actually can. Only Shepard would have the fucking balls to poke around in his mind and make him care what happens, at that. 

Damn the woman. 

At least he's getting paid. 

 

*

 

“Commander, is it true that you plan on visiting the crash site?”

Kelly Chambers stands outside the elevator when Shepard has finished breakfast, a concerned expression on her face. 

“Good morning to you, too, Chambers.” 

They're going to have a quick morning debriefing about the most immediate concerns for the upcoming assignments and Shepard gives the Yeoman a glance, her thoughts not catching up at first. But of course she's got stuck on the Normandy thing, Shepard thinks and stifles a groan. _Sometimes the psychological reaction can be delayed when one experiences severe trauma, Commander._ It's too early in the morning for psychology. Especially if the damn test subject is Shepard. 

“I'm sorry, Commander. I just read the notes.” Chambers says, friendly as ever. “I must say I admire your willingness to put yourself through the trauma of going-”

“I'm going there to place a monument to honour the fallen,” Shepard interrupts, scratching the back of her head. “Alliance business.” 

Chambers nods. “Even so, it will bring back a lot of memories. I'm here for you, Commander. Whatever you need.”

“Right.” Shepard nods back. _You can't fix me, Chambers. I'm not broken._ “That's great. But I'll be fine.”

She just needs a mug of proper, black coffee without the sweetening and the powdered milk Gardner insists on using by default. When she tells the yeoman that, there's a brief silence before Kelly Chambers smiles. 

“Five minutes, Commander.” 

“Interesting,” Miranda comments, passing by on her way to the debriefing room. “When she says 'whatever you need', she _really_ means it.”

“Careful what you wish for there, Shep,” Kasumi zigzags through the group, carrying her own mug of coffee. 

Shepard shakes her head and starts up her omni-tool to summon the latecomers. 

 

*

 

There’s a thick, heavy silence in the cockpit as Joker prepares the shuttle for landing on Alchera. 

Shepard squares her shoulders, well-aware of being the centre of everyone's attention as she crosses the crew deck. The diversity of eyes that follow her, the sensation of being paraded about. She checks her equipment one last time before signalling that she's ready to depart. 

“I'll come with you,” Garrus offers for the second time today but she shakes her head; he gives an exasperated sound, his mandibles moving. “Shepard, I was _there_ -”

“So was I.” She says it with forced cheer and a pat on the turian's back. “Leave it to me.” 

Garrus gives her a strange look. 

“That's not what I-”

“Talk to you later, Garrus.” She puts on her helmet and double-checks her equipment and then she jumps into the shuttle without looking back. 

Not too long after that, she is standing in the wrecked debris of what once was the crew deck of her former ship – _her_ ship, belonging to her in ways that nothing else had ever done.

When she had first boarded the Normandy during its shakedown run, Shepard had fallen in love. It's rather telling, she thinks to herself as she walks around at the site that marked the end of her life last time around, that this is the only time she's ever been in love – and with a damn starship at that. Not that it had been difficult to fall for all that cutting-edge technology, the promise of adventure, those quiet, smooth engines and the crisp scent of novelty in the air. She had been part of spectacular missions before Eden Prime - _spectacular_ being one of the words she still uses to describe the N7 business - and she'd seen her fair share of action in and outside of the battlefield. 

But it had been something else entirely, serving on the Normandy. 

She marks the spot intended for the monument and sends the coordinates to the tech crew, thinking about the odd measurements of life and death. Twenty people had died in the crash. She barely recognises a single name on the list - _learn their names, Shepard_ , an old mentor says in her head, _count them, learn their value_ \- and there's relief in that, buried beneath the initial sense of failure. She remembers numbers, not names because she's been to war and war isn't about people, it's about objectives. 

To get them all out. That had been her main objective. It hadn't been about self-sacrifice but protocol and she remembers even now how grateful that had made her because she's not a martyr. She's a military woman by trade and a survivor by nature and hard facts and solid regs are in her blood. As she had launched the distress beacon the duties had drowned out everything else, blinding her to her own thoughts. Joker had been the last, the odd number, the one digit between her and a mission accomplished: _evacuate all remaining crew._

But like Kaidan, he had got caught in that smooth line of command and there's a sudden catch in her at the memory, a tug at something unnamed, unhealed. 

In a pile of various debris, half-buried in the wreckage, she can see the top of a very familiar N7 helmet and her heart jerks in her chest, her throat suddenly tight and dry. 

“Commander?” Joker's voice in her ear feels like an intrusion. She _really_ ought to speak with him. He had watched her get spaced after she had carried him to an escape pod; you don't need to be a genius to realise this brings a fair amount of survivor's guilt and it certainly merits a talk, but Shepard’s avoided it so far and keeps pushing it further away in her mind. _If you hadn't been so damn stubborn, Joker._ In that cockpit, she remembers even now, time had sort of warped back and forth and she had been on Akuze again, taking cover while the maws killed her squad. For years afterwards, the rage had fuelled her dreams of revenge. Revenge against the faceless, nameless fate that had made it happen, fate that eventually earned itself a name and a shape. And these days she's got the culprits right in front of her and they're handing her the weapons but she can't shoot. In the weird impasse of her new life, even her fury has begun to drain away, leaving a strange calmness behind. 

Rage may be one hell of an anaesthetic but she wonders, though she doesn't particularly want to find out, where the line is drawn between reversible loss of sensation and permanent numbness. 

“Commander, are you all right?” 

Picking up the helmet - her helmet - from the ground, she nods and puts on a curt smile. 

“I'm always all right, Joker.” 

For a second she thinks she's lost the connection, then she can hear his voice again.

“Aye, aye, Commander.”


	6. Interruptions

Shepard groans to herself. 

She works harder than ever, staying awake all through the nights with her limitless supply of datapads and with the occasional distractions provided by the extranet as her faithful companions. She tries working out – beats every single one of her personal records on the treadmill twice in two days – and makes a half-hearted attempt to comfort eat as well, though her personal supply is running short. But it's like her old habits and structures have shifted with the new genetically altered body she carries around these days and at that thought, she has to push back a wave of worried anger. 

_A cyborg can't suffer from insomnia._ She glares at her own reflection in the mirror, at the grey-blue tint around her eyes.

And furthermore, she concludes, judging by Cerberus' penchant for crowd-pleasing within their own ranks, they would have taken the opportunity to equip Cyborg Shepard with a solid B-cup as well. Her flat chest and crooked nose are proof as good as any in this matter. 

One long night spent in transit between two systems, she decides to defeat her boredom by raiding Gardner's storage for a very late snack. It seems only fair she should be free to help herself to it, especially considering the shopping note she's got stored on her omni-tool for the next time they make it to the Citadel. 

Of course, Gardner's idea of a suitable snack supply isn't entirely in tune with her own. Grumbling to herself, Shepard discards a sack full of dried fruit – lab-grown fruit with added vitamins and minerals taste like shit anyway – and frowns as she picks up a box of something unidentifiable labelled as ' _topping_ '. 

She opens the carton, licks on her finger and dips it in the suspiciously pale content. A second later strawberry and something decidedly salty melts on her tongue; she grimaces and puts the topping away. 

Then she spots the upper shelf that is chock-full of the good old traditional stuff: potato chips, cookies, assorted candy. She smiles. Having served for many years she knows the exact value of things like these, the mob mentality of space marines smelling a bit of sugar or junk after cycles of rationed meals, artificial vegetables and questionable alien delights. 

This, however, is _perfect_. 

Just as she gets her hands on the first thing she can grab on the shelf, the balancing act overwhelms her and she wiggles a little – enough to be forced to hold on to anything within reach and devote the rest of her momentum to the task of keeping herself upright. 

The voice that booms straight into her solitary mission manages to nearly scare her at first. For almost a cycle now she's spent far too many nights walking around the desolate corridors; she's begun to count on being left alone. 

“The hell are you doing, Shepard? You can hear the racket all the way to the gym.”

_“Shit_.” She turns around, trying in vain to hide the massive bag of chips behind her back. “Oh, good. It's _you_.”

Zaeed stands in the doorway, raising an eyebrow. “Not usually the reaction I get.”

“I thought it was Gardner.” Shepard straightens up and gives him a proper look. He seems to be fresh out of the shower. Even if they occasionally run into each other down in the gym facility, she's not yet used to the sight of Zaeed wearing regular clothes. It takes a second or two to familiarize her brain with the man in front of her dressed in casual pants and a t-shirt, because somehow it doesn't fit her idea of him. It would surprise her less if he was to reveal that he, like Grunt, is bred in a tank and equipped with armour from the start. “You're a vast improvement.”

He mutters something that sounds like 'you bloody bet I am', crossing his arms over his chest. Shepard takes another look at the supplies on the upper shelf. There's a similar bag further in that promises pepper flavour and she'd pick pepper over anything else every day of the week if she could so she discards the one in her hand. 

“So you're here stealing from your own ship?”

“Well.” Shepard pokes into an opened box of various stuff that she can't make any sense of. Then she puts it back, standing on tiptoe to get a better reach. “Technically this isn't my food.” 

When she makes a bold move with her free hand – and just the slightest bit of biotic energy - to summon the pepper chips, all the bags and boxes leave their previous positions and tumble into her arms. Shepard curses and hears Zaeed give a bark of laughter as a pack of Sweet Sugar Relays hits her in the forehead. 

“A little help here?” she hisses, pushing what she can back on the shelf. 

After what feels like a deliberate delay, he walks up beside her up to assist. He stands right behind her, his large frame blocking most of the light and making the cramped space seem even smaller; Shepard can feel the scent of soap and the standard Normandy disinfectants on his skin. This cycle's flavour is wood. When she lowers her arms again, her shoulder brushes against his for a moment and there's a ripple of something vaguely familiar and almost visceral running through her at the touch. A warm-blooded creature without armour standing this close to her, reminding her of the human connection. She can't remember the last time that happened. Even before the crash she had sort of removed herself from the life of dating, filling up every empty space with work and it seems this ill-advised abstinence is about to start taking its toll on her mental health. _Great, I've turned into the CO everyone warned me about becoming. Another few years and I'll start pressing myself up against new recruits._

She frowns, taking a step back, holding on to her hard-earned bag of chips. Zaeed catches her gaze but says nothing. 

He's a big man. Not that this is an unusual sight on a military starship and Jacob, for example, is almost the same size but Jacob has worked for it - like most marines, he's _made_ himself big. Zaeed's a big bulk of a man by default and this scene, she decides, is just so absurd anyway so she can allow herself to let her eyes linger on the tattoos running in wide patterns on his arms. When she was a stupid rebellious kid back on Earth, she had always favoured the tattooed ones, dragging her nails down ink and skin, pretending the patterns told a story worth hearing. It seems like such a childish preference now, yet the little tug at the back of her mind disagrees. 

_Next time a voluptuous asari is willing, I am going to swallow the bite. Anyone will do, apparently._

Zaeed leans to the side to pick up a stray box of candy and Shepard gets a glimpse of the back of his head where his hair is still wet and _downy_ , which is such a hilarious word to associate with the old merc that it makes her grin to herself. There's a jagged sort of quality to everything about him, even his skin, as though the feel of it would be rough against her hands. 

When he turns around again, she still holds her chips and he looks at them, before making a move towards the door; Shepard wants to ask him to stay. 

She wonders when _that_ happened, but perhaps it’s not too weird, considering. 

She’s built a career on doing the impossible and to achieve it she’s built herself to fit the task. Impressive, improbable, _untouchable_. Everyone wants to believe in heroes so they swallow the bait, grateful to have someone to look up to and someone to blame if it all goes wrong. 

She’s a living legend and they all look up to her. 

Zaeed looks at her and sees her faults. 

He’s an unrepentant, refreshingly unapologetic kind of man and to him she’s just another boss who offers money for his service and tells him where to point his gun; he doesn’t salute her or tell her exactly where he was when he heard about her inauguration as a Spectre – the number of times she’s listened to people accounting for those damn minutes is unbelievable. He doesn't pull any punches and he doesn't lie to spare her feelings. He doesn't need her to be his hero or the purpose of his existence, the one who forges his goals and holds his motivation in her hands. He doesn't need her. 

If given half a chance, Zaeed takes a long hard look at her and lets her know that she relies too much on her biotic powers in a fight or that she’s a sanctimonious bitch or that she's made a mistake – picked the wrong gun, made the wrong move, aimed too high or too low. 

Plus, she thinks with a small inwardly grin, she definitely appreciates the casual way in which he keeps preventing her trite and formulaic breakdowns. 

“Chips?” She asks, holding up the bag as though he isn’t already utterly aware of its existence. “Or cookies?”

“You having a goddamn slumber party, Shepard?” Zaeed’s voice is harsh, but she can spot that devilish gleam in his eyes all the same. “Can I invite my friends, too?”

“You don’t have any friends, Zaeed.” Shepard slumps down on a chair in the abandoned mess hall, tearing the bag open. 

“Neither do you.” It's not entirely true, but it's true enough for them both in here, at this moment. He sits down opposite her, resting both hands on the table between them. 

And there’s this, too, she realises when she looks into his eyes. This strangely honest thing that’s evolving out of fury and prejudices and her fist in his face, this thing that has come out of his venom and bitterness and her bone-deep exhaustion. Honesty. Honesty of the brutal, thorough kind. He doesn’t buy any of the lies she whips up and she doesn’t have to spare him from the truth. 

“So,” she observes him for a moment longer before turning her attention back to the chips. “What are you doing up in the middle of the night?”

He shrugs. “Best time to work out. Got the whole goddamn place to yourself.”

“And here I thought you were a social butterfly, Zaeed.”

Anyone else would have asked her what the hell she's doing up, she knows. Turned the question around, feigned a concerned interest in her well-being. He doesn't. She sort of likes him for it. He leaves her alone even when he's keeping her company and she hasn't had that sort of thing in a very long time. Shepard thinks about Illium and the bourbon burning in her mouth and she thinks about Zaeed, challenging her to keep up with his pace. It had been therapeutic in its own way and he had seemed to get it – had seemed to get her - without even asking. 

Shepard takes a deep breath, wishing for a beer. Or a really strong, acrid drink of the kind they used to make whenever they were counting down to shore leave during her first year in the Alliance. Feels like a long time ago now. 

Back when she enlisted, she had nursed this image of herself as a powerful CO, frowning over piles of work and pulling all-nighters. It had been some sort of vague ideal at the back of her mind, a stupidly romantic scene from one of those military novels she would never admit she once used to love. 

It has become abundantly clear that the reality of that notion isn't as darkly glamorous as she had hoped for. 

At the very least, the chips are as good as her idea of them. Grabbing a handful and shoving them into her mouth, Shepard leans back in her seat and looks out over the dingy room that never really gets properly dark. A faint light is flickering inside the medical bay – she isn’t going to be surprised if it turns out Chakwas is still awake, too, sitting in front of her laptop or tending to some neglected research. Whenever they speak, the doctor is complaining about the noise from the crew quarters nearby. _Sounds like a kindergarten in there. There is a reason I did not want children of my own, Commander._ Though Shepard is willing to venture a guess that it’s not just the rowdy young Cerberus officers that are keeping her up, she makes a mental note to bring this up with Miranda in the morning.

“Humanity’s best hope,” she mumbles, swallowing a large, chunky chip. 

_Big goddamn heroes._ That was what Zaeed had called them, back on Omega. Back when he had been no more than a name in a dossier she hadn't found time to read. She hadn't exactly trusted the Illusive Man's judgement but figured she would have time to get rid of any unwanted element of the crew later. Seems odd now to think of any of them as elements to be purged which just proves that any ship eventually will fall into the same familiar pattern – no quarrel among shipmates, no grudges clouding the chain of command. It's just too much trouble to be worth it; this life breeds a strange sort of consensus that she’s never known if she appreciates or find suspicious. Possibly a little bit of both. 

“You know what I miss the most about Earth?” she asks when Zaeed doesn’t speak.

She wonders briefly why he’s still around but decides not venture any guess about that. There are limits to what she wants to get out of their unspoken honesty clause. 

“Wild guess? The food.” 

“Yeah. Not just this crap, though. I miss actual _food._ Ribs. Chicken wings. Burgers. Beef. Steaks. 

She will never be the poster girl for vegetarianism or healthy living, that's for damn sure. 

“You could get decent a steak on the Citadel a few years ago.” Zaeed rubs his neck with one hand, revealing yet more tattoos swirling across the inside of his upper arm. “Expensive as hell though.”

“Really? We were looking everywhere for decent human food but all we could find was salmon.” 

She almost winces at the thought. Of course, nothing is more old-fashioned and less hip than meat these days. Then again, Shepard has rarely been one to adapt to trends and her taste buds all scream for salty, sugary, greasy food regardless of what this may eventually do to her system. She’s no longer a marine; she doesn’t have to follow any dietary regimes. Besides, she won't live long enough to die of the consequences of her diet anyway. 

“Yeah, I bet it wasn't profitable enough." 

“People are idiots about food,” she says, grabbing another handful of chips. She eats them one by one, not looking up. 

Opposite her, Zaeed wanders off into a long-winded story about a batarian cargo ship in the Terminus system where he and _'some mates, crazy sons of bitches'_ had caused a riot over some deal with a food shipment from Earth. She stops paying attention somewhere mid-story but it doesn't matter much because it's the kind of story he tells merely because he likes the sound of his own voice. If she's entirely honest with herself she has to admit she sort of likes it, too. 

It frames her thoughts nicely as she pushes the half-full bag of snacks away, feeling somewhat queasy. 

She really ought to sleep.

There's a monotone but insistent streak in her thoughts as of late, one that grows more nagging and restless for every day they spend in between missions. She's never had much patience for transit time to begin with, and it appears the scientists at Cerberus haven't taken the time to add any virtues to her new build. _We brought you back just as you were, for good or ill._ Miranda had not bothered to hide a wry little smile as she had explained precisely that to Shepard a few cycles ago - just as she makes no secret of the fact that she had voted in favor for a control chip planted in Shepard’s brain. 

And this, she thinks, is where every trail of thought ends up if she’s careless or weighed down with this current lack of sleep. A full circle of pointless brooding. 

"I wonder how they got my body out of the crash site," she says suddenly, frowning as she hears her own words. Things like these usually don’t find their way out of her tightly controlled composure. 

Zaeed is silent. She glances at him; she can never tell if he looks bored to death or if he's simply _studying_ her with that steely gaze of his, the one that seems intent on making a hole in her skull. Even when they're occasionally mock flirting or teasing each other, she isn't sure if he's picturing her naked or plotting to sell her to the highest bidder. 

_No,_ she tells herself firmly. She's got to stop doubting her own crew or else her constant demands of them working together as a team won't carry any weight. What was it Aria had said on Omega? _I distrust all equally._ That sort of pragmatism makes sense to Shepard as well. And if she can trust Miranda enough to accept her as the second in command, that means she can trust this grouchy old merc not to sell her out to slavers. 

Once they've defeated the Reapers, if she's still alive by then, she can start worrying about the details. 

“Does it matter?” he asks eventually, and the question sounds genuine enough so she decides to give him an honest answer. 

“Yes.” She looks straight at him, thinking she kind of wishes she could go about this differently, but regardless of how many times she turns it over in her head, it _matters_. “I woke up with a lot of strings attached and I'd like to know why.”

He snorts. “Because you're bloody _Shepard_.”

Shepard sighs. She wonders when it will stop being so damn confusing. 

She wonders, too, how Zaeed had felt. His file doesn’t reveal much about it and there’s a gap spanning over a few years where all traces of him seem to have been erased – deliberately or not - and she doesn’t think he’s about to blurt anything about his whereabouts to her either. At times it appears that everyone’s done their homework on her while she’s forced to accept things at face value when it comes to everyone else. Commander Shepard is an open book, her allegiances spread out in broad daylight and her every step monitored by the powers that be. She enjoys digging into someone else’s life and this one in particular is a welcome change. 

“So how did _you_ survive?”

There's a second of silence – of hesitation – when they look at each other, their expressions locked and their gazes intertwined across the table. The line of his jaw is taut and hard, his teeth stubbornly clenched. Shepard attempts a smile, but _reassuring_ isn't one of her more convincing traits. 

“One of the mercs that ambushed me notified the local cops.” Zaeed gives a half-shrug. He crosses his arms over his chest, as though he's bracing himself. Against what, she doesn't know but finds that she definitely wants to learn. Too bad she never will. Something dark flickers in his good eye before he continues. “Vido is a sadistic son of a bitch, but he's goddamn sloppy.” 

Shepard tries to remember any names from the file, or from the brief and angry conversation on Zorya. It's slipped further back inside her mind, overshadowed by the turmoil that had followed; edged out by more recent memories of Zaeed as well. Though she realises now that he's hardly forgotten Vido for a second, Collectors or not. 

“You know who it was?”

“Wasn't exactly in a position to check. Anyway, it's not important,” he says in a tone that tells her it definitely is but that he's not going to tell her anything else about it. 

A tiny wave of guilt passes through her at the thought of the mercenary leader and how she had let him get away. Truth be told, she would have acted differently if Zaeed had only bothered to make a better case before they went to that refinery. If he had given her his whole story, for example. Or an extended background for Vido. _The sort of background check I should have done myself._ Shepard's never been big on researching her missions in advance. It's a flaw carried over from years of Alliance business where someone else – some nameless, low-ranking marine - had always done that kind of work for her, leaving her with a thorough file and a lot of confidence in the mission. Always such firm confidence in the mission. 

Goddamn Alliance bullshit, she hears Zaeed answer her unspoken confession in her head and she holds back a sarcastic smile. 

That trust. The conviction that has permeated her entire military career, such as it is. Unshakeable faith in your superiors, in your common goal. It seems so naive now in retrospect and while a part of her wishes she could get her faith back, she's grateful that she can't. Idealism may be a nice sort of fuel, but it's not going to win any wars. 

“I think it's important,” she says, examining her fingernails in the pale light that slants across the room. 

“Why?” he retorts, not giving her anything else. 

“Because things like that always are.” 

She doesn't add: _because I'm trying to figure out if this resurrection was intended as a blessing or a damn punishment._ Judging by the way Zaeed looks at her, she doesn't have to. He knows what it's like. 

There's something about him in this moment that renders her transparent, something entirely too open and raw in the way she feels when she looks at him; she averts her eyes. A scraping noise tells her he's got to his feet and the sound of his voice is altered when he speaks. 

“Just stick at it, Shepard,” he says simply and levelly. His tone is low and if not exactly kind then at least less irritable than it usually is. 

She looks up, trying to think of a response – grappling for high ground comes as natural to her as breathing, after all – but there's a finality in his tone that worms its way inside and it is, she realises, oddly soothing. 

And then he walks away without saying anything else.


	7. Friends and other strangers

Jacob Taylor needs a good shag more than anyone else in the goddamn galaxy. 

It's just glaringly obvious, Zaeed concludes, and not only because of the way the kid is looking at those dumbbells. After having shared a gym with him for too many cycles now, Zaeed has been left with no other choice but to witness the rigid routines and inhuman stamina of the Cerberus operative. A hundred press-ups, a hundred crunches, a hundred squat-thrusts, a bloody eternity on the treadmill and then back to the floor again – and all of it without getting the least bit winded or breaking a sweat. 

Whenever Taylor walks into the room, there's a collective groan from the crewmen usually hogging the machines because they all know that for the next three hours, they'll be treated to the most joyless and demoralizing bloody workout scheme in known history. 

He's making the more timid of the crew take wide berths around whatever machines he's using, and among the less inhibited sons of bitches he's causing a minor stir and a serves as an interruption in their concentration. If Taylor is really as concerned as he pretends to be about their cause, he ought to stay the hell out of everyone else's way instead of trying to converse with them as he’s working out. 

It's just goddamn _annoying_. 

“Honestly,” one of the technicians – a good kid from some remote mining colony – says, shaking his head when Taylor drops down on the floor for his third set of crunches. “He’s downright intimidating.”

Honestly, Zaeed admits to himself, the annoying part is that he's making Zaeed feel _old_ he doesn't take kindly to that crap. 

One of his mates – a retired asari bounty hunter famous mostly for her last mission on a Turian cruiser where she blew up one damn fleet to get her bounty – once told him about the difference between various types of hunters; if they hunt animals or people doesn't really matter, she had claimed, the pattern is there. On the one hand you have the gentlemen hunters, the rich sons of bitches who travel from planet to planet to shoot at any rare species, only to have trophies to place in their homes. The kind of hunter who retire from the hunt with a stiff drink and smug smile. And then the other kind: the blood hunters who are in it for the kick. They seek the fatal jerk of a wounded creature, the chase, the exact moment when the animal shudders and cracks to one side, defeated. 

Taylor is the gentleman hunter of the gym. 

Today, like most days as of late, the place is full. It figures. Everyone's more determined when they're competing with death and Shepard – who has already died once – has definitely gained a lot of bulk since he first saw her on Omega, putting some much-needed meat on that lanky frame of hers. She's the other kind of hunter, Zaeed thinks with an inward grin. He's seen her roar her way through the last painful repetitions, spitting insult and curses. 

Today, she’s over at the treadmill, with her Cerberus doll close at hand. 

Lawson probably doesn't even need to work out with all that cybernetics in her body and she's dressed in her regular suit where she stands besides Shepard. That's her usual position in this facility, Zaeed has learned, serving mostly as a distracting supervisor. Right now she seems to be discussing the datapads in her hands or some objective that remains unknown to the majority of them. Presumably Shepard is participates even as she speeds up her goddamn pace, mirroring Taylor’s stamina in that aspect, at least.

Whatever they discuss, the covetous look on Laweson's face can't be concealed, not even from a distance. She's evaluating Shepard like one evaluates a project, with the possessiveness and pride of a bloody parent. There’s something really goddamn creepy about it and he tries to overhear what they’re saying from the bench where he is challenging his arms slightly more than usual. 

"...the re-growth in your muscle tissue is exceeding expectations-"

"I always exceed expectations," Shepard mutters, loud enough for Zaeed to catch it. "I'm also housebroken and I jump real high."

Lawson shakes her head. " _Shepard_."

"It's _Commander_ Shepard but fine, go on."

Zaeed smirks to himself, adding another few pounds to the bar. 

“…recovered fully…,” Lawson presses on, though most of her reasoning is lost in the noise from dumbbells and weights being shuffled around. “…experience any discomfort?”

He can’t hear what Shepard answers but he doubts she’d ever admit if anything about her isn’t exceeding expectations. If he knows her at all – and lately he's begun to think that he does - she's the kind of stoic soldier type who'd walk into a battle with one arm missing, insisting on completing the mission no matter what. 

As the two women leave, there's a muffled, half-swallowed comment from crewman Olsen about tension – _Lawson could relieve my tension any day_ \- and a couple of servicemen laugh nervously. Not that the Cerberus doll would mind. Lawson and Jacob Taylor are the centres of attention wherever they go and Zaeed figures they're bathing in it, too, probably keeping count of the exact number of glances they get parading through the gym. 

Shepard, on the other hand, just doesn't give a shit and doesn’t want anyone else to do it either. She’s singular, a law unto herself. She gets off the treadmill, wipes sweat from her face with the back of her hand, rakes a hand through her soaked hair; on her way across the room she spits in the sink and grabs a clean towel from a rack without even noticing anyone else. Zaeed likes that about her, her carelessness with her own appearance, because there’s something about it, something truly confident and enticingly _crude_. She’d never saunter – he can’t even recall having seen her use any kind of make up or do anything with her hair - and she always walks into a room like she’s the only person there, utterly unaware that people might look twice at her for any other reason than because she gives them orders to do so. 

That's why she's their goddamn commander. Lawson is an act, Shepard is for real. 

And it shouldn't be possible, Zaeed concludes in a trail of thought that is damn well best left unfinished, for a plain-looking woman with an infuriating personality to be so bloody sexy. 

 

*

 

Haestrom is like a descent straight into hell.   
The solar radiation is burning through the shields, leaving his skin tingling with the unnatural heat. The dust and dirt at from the ground of this goddamn rock hoover a few feet up in the air; he can taste it at the back of his throat, like something stale that's been left too long. 

Irritated and _hot_ , he glances at Shepard who's immersed in the task of double-checking the missive and the directions. To their left, the salarian is bent over a geth corpse, talking to himself as usual. He seems largely untroubled by the working conditions but then again, there's no normal reaction to _anything_ stored in that bloody creature. Zaeed kind of likes the man but he's a damn nuisance all the same. Between his one-track scientist mind and Shepard's exactitude, their path to a shadier spot seems to take forever. 

As their commander delays them further by poking around in some debris on the ground, Zaeed gives a low growl. 

“Hey, Shepard, we're goddamn frying here.”

He wonders why she isn't more bothered by the heat but figures she doesn't need to add that concern to her ever-growing list of reason for stalling them. When he calls out, she meets his gaze for a moment, before looking back down at the data on her omni-tool. 

“You'll live, Zaeed.”

But she does move and he stifles a groan of relief. Not that he'd normally hesitate to ignore the chain of command but he figures the less they split up on a geth-infested planed, the more likely it is they'll all make it out alive. He ponders, as they approach a building where Shepard claims to hear some suspicious activity, what the hell a bunch of tech experts are doing deep in geth space, but he's long since given up on trying to make sense of quarians. Great with machines, crap with decisions. 

To be completely honest, the same could be said about himself but at least he doesn't demand the pity of the entire goddamn galaxy for it. 

Several hours later, they sit in a shuttle, waiting for clearance to travel back to the Normandy. Zaeed rubs what little of his neck he can reach below the collar of his armour and runs his fingers along the body of his rifle, checking for damage and listening inattentively to the conversation - and the salarian's monologue - that fills the shuttle on the way back to the Normandy.

Shepard looks different, slumped down beside her friend and comparing tech equipment like kids comparing toys. It's funny, he thinks, that Shepard discards slightly damaged weapons without a second thought but treats her omni-tool as the goddamn second coming - he had asked her about it once and she had merely shrugged, not willing to elaborate further. She rarely is, though lately she’s been much chattier and even swapped a few stories with him. Probably her new strategy to ensure his loyalty, he decides. You never know with her. 

“So,” the quarian says, turning her attention to Zaeed. “Are you with Cerberus, too?”

“Best bounty hunter in the goddamn galaxy,” he offers, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back in his seat. “Cerberus told me Shepard needed to get some killing done. That's the long and short.”

“Always these mercenaries on your ship, Shepard.” The quarian sounds amused. 

Shepard makes a gesture that's somewhere between a shrug and the kind of dismissive hand-wave she often does when she considers something unimportant to give a proper answer to. Arrogant bitch, he thinks, almost smiling. 

“Why not? They're good with weapons, have flexible morale and in case of emergency, they're expendable,” she says dryly. 

“Yeah?” He shoots her a glance. 

“Yeah.” When Zaeed catches her gaze, she gives him a tucked-in kind of smile. “That's me, looking for cannon fodder all over the galaxy.”

 

*

 

As always, the mess hall is crowded. 

The buzz of dinner time reverberate off the metal walls and rise between the tables. Shepard weaves her way through the room, trying not to step on her crew or their plates. She's not normally here during meal time, preferring to have her dinner in relative silence where she can have more than one bite before having to deal with her subordinates. Days like today reminds her of why. 

“Commander!”

A good portion of the engineering crew wave cheerfully at her. Pressing back a sigh and trying to breach the slight chink in her patience, Shepard nods back at them. 

To her left, she can see another group of familiar faces and repeats the greeting procedure before snatching her tray and turning on her heel. Starship military life, she thinks to herself. Such a mixed bag. Out of the corner of her eyes, Shepard makes a quick analysis of the rest of the room, looking for the best spot to sit. 

In the Alliance, meals follow the same routine as everything else, the same existence so perfectly framed by regs and that hierarchy structure she had loathed at first but eventually had come to appreciate for its simplicity. Here, she plays poker with the guys who clean her cabin and never really knows where to have a seat in the mess hall. It's a bit like being back in high school, only with more death and less raunchy times in abandoned classrooms.

She heads for the far end of the room. 

“Why don't you sit down with us, Commander?” Chakwas says from her seat at a somewhat isolated table. Joker sits beside her, shoving large mouthfuls of today's version of chicken casserole into his mouth and barely looks up when Shepard takes a seat opposite him. 

“Good job on Haestrom, Joker.” Shepard turns to the doctor. “Did you have a lot of patching up to do afterwards?”

“No worse than usual, despite the radiation.” She puts down her glass of water. “I was glad to see your friend Tali again, too.”

There's a touch of something concerned in Doctor Chakwas' voice but it quickly vanished behind the half-smile she offers. Shepard tastes her food. _Friend._ It's such a weird and static term for anyone in her life, a life where it seems everyone has to be if not unimportant so at least _replaceable_. She's been doing so well at detachment before, made it her particular skill in the early years of training and refined it further in the N7 – get to know your crew, get familiar with the way they work, but don't get too close. _You can fraternize all you want during shore leave_ , her first CO echoes in her head at times. _But on my ship, you're at work 24/7._

“We've recruited everyone the Illusive Man suggested we'd recruit.” She pauses, rocks back in her chair. “I have a couple of things I want to research and we have a hell of a lot left to learn about the Collectors. Then we'll bring the fight to them.”

“We will be ready eventually, Commander.” Chakwas nods, an oddly formal gesture that makes Shepard smile despite not feeling the slightest bit certain they'll ever be ready. For _any_ of this. 

“There's not much room for any other options,” she replies, with the fading military bravado colouring the edges of her words. If they notice how weak it is, they don't make a big deal of it. 

Their war is like no war she can recall having studied. It's force on force, but doesn't lend itself to a good old-fashioned measuring scale. How do you analyse the wins and losses between a force nearly everyone in the galaxy consider a myth, targeting people that have few allies?

In many ways, Shepard thinks as she's looking around at the lot of special agents and highly skilled operatives she's gathered, this is traditional manoeuvre warfare. And she'd welcome that, really. That's her _thing_. But the natural chaos she would normally use to her advantage in such a scenario is too vast, too massive and the battlefield so spread-out and scattered that nothing is predictable, not even the inherit pattern of destruction. 

“We can't do much worse than last time,” Jokes chimes in. “Mutiny, full-scale war...”

She shrugs. “ _Dying_.” 

Shepard regrets the word immediately but to her relief, Joker plays along. 

“Hey, you look better in this version anyway,” he deadpans. 

“That's no way to speak to your commanding officer.” She smiles a little, burying her familiar twinge of irritation over the subject. 

“Sure it is.” The tone is warm, but he looks away. Shepard studies him for a moment; _prepare for evasive manoeuvres,_ she thinks, running the pad of her thumb around the quickly cooling glass of water. 

When she looks up again, she sees that Chakwas is observing them both but she says nothing else. 

 

*

 

“I miss the old crew too, believe me.” 

Shepard leans against the side of the panel Tali is working on, trying in vain to pick up some sort of sign from the quarian. 

Tali hadn't been as happy to join the team as Shepard might have expected. Or not expected, really, but _hoped_ for in that part of her mind where she lets herself nurse a few ridiculous ideas and pretences. It's healthy, she tells herself. It's a coping mechanism and coping, all experts would surely agree, is good. But all things considered, she can't blame anyone for having second thoughts about joining this mess. If she didn't need Tali, she'd tell her to get the hell away right about now, return to her fleet and her family. 

“It's not the crew, Shepard. It's the... the people behind it.” Tali pauses in her work, turning her head. “The ideas.”

“I know.” 

“You know better than most people what they are capable of. I do not have to tell you this.”

“No, Tali. There’s no illusion here. I promise you that.”

That doesn't change the fact that it's good to be reminded, she thinks, studying the group of technicians stationed at the other side of the room. Unlike the hard-working crew that came with the ship, her new recruits need a bit of old-fashioned rallying. I would have followed you anywhere, Kaidan says in her memory, but Kaidan's not here and he has declared her a traitor. She can't assume Tali feels any different. 

Tali gives a nod. “And are you still certain working for Cerberus is the right thing to do?”

_Hell, no._

“I fully expect them to betray us at some point,” she says, making her words sound slightly more diplomatic than her thoughts on the subject. She speaks too freely as it is, she knows. Reveals too much, even if she's made it perfectly clear from the first meeting with the Illusive Man where she stands. Even so, she regrets the admission the moment it leaves her mouth. In the privacy of her own mind, she can allow herself the same obstinacy and doubt, but she's the CO of this suicide mission and morale, they say, is key. “But right now, they're our best shot. I honestly believe that.”

_And who knows, maybe I get a shot at betraying them first._

“That is good at least.”

“If it helps,” Shepard says, surveying the panels that surrounds them, “I'm giving you access to everything on our channels. If you need more input, talk to Garrus, he's been here a while.”

“Ah, yes.” Tali's voice softens a little. “That _would_ help.”

“I thought as much.” 

If Tali manages to squeeze more than a few words from the turian, then that's just a bonus, Shepard thinks to herself. Her own success has been limited, to say the least. 

On her way back from Tali, Shepard stops for a moment in the corridor outside the elevator to look out at the stars. 

They seem much more tranquil down here, not as threatening as they appear in her cabin where the open space above her head at night is a cold chill in her dreams. She had asked Miranda about it once, questioning why anyone would place a window in the ceiling when you create the quarters of someone who got spaced. Miranda, displaying her usual wide range of empathy, had merely shrugged. _It's a spaceship, Shepard._

Back when she was a kid on Earth, she'd look at the stars like any other child with that odd combination of wanderlust and fear, slowly morphing into awe. Now she looks at them and wishes she could feel those brief snippets of childhood again, that stream through her, the memories of a different kind of life. It hadn't been a particularly good life, but it had been on her own terms. 

“Doing the rounds?” The voice behind her is dry and a surprisingly welcome crack in the calm silence of her surroundings. 

“Keeping track of me, Zaeed?”

He snorts. “You damn sure find ways to flatter yourself.” 

“You know how it is.” Shepard turns around, feeling her rather tense mood ease up somewhat. “Space is a cold and cruel mistress.”

Zaeed observes her for a second before diverting his gaze; he cranes his neck to study EDI and then looks up at Shepard again. He's just as detached as her, she thinks, leaning her back against the display of stars. A solitary creature, removed from all context and sent out into space. The slums of the Earth are crowded with people just like them – disposable, expendable. 

She shifts a little, squares her shoulder, trying to rid herself of the sensation of unknown urgency that floods through her veins tonight. There's a restless tug at her composure that clashes with her determination to hold off any kind of aggressive move until their initial position looks better. She owes that to her crew. 

“I used to run with this gang of smugglers back on Earth.” Zaeed takes a step closer, picking up a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “Crazy drug addicts the whole lot of them. Stupid sons of bitches, too.”

Shepard wonders, without really wanting to ask, if he's ever befriended any intelligent, stable people on his journeys through the galaxy. 

“Anyway,” Zaeed continues. “They were saving up cash to get to Terra Nova and start some goddamn business. Don't ask me what kind.”

“Did they succeed?” She asks despite suspecting the answer already. His tales usually have gory and unhappy endings full of cynicism, severed limbs and assorted bodily fluids. But he does have a way with words, she'll give him that. 

“Nah.” He shrugs. “Got on a shuttle to Noveria. The entire thing blew up right over a remote asteroid colony. Everyone was declared dead. That's the last I heard from them.” 

“Hell, Zaeed, you should write children's books.” Shepard rubs the bridge of her nose. 

He gives a short bark of a laughter. “Goddamn right I should. That would teach those little bastards not to go into space.”

Shepard can't help but laugh, too, despite herself. Contrary to what she had first thought back on Omega, Zaeed's as sharp as they come and shrewdly observant, for that matter, keeping a lot of things to himself. He's a bull-headed kind of clever and comes with too much of a temper to put his mind to good use in the traditional military context, but talking to him, she can definitely see how he's kept himself alive through the endless string of chaos that his records speak of. To be a survivor you need more than luck. 

“I don't know, though,” she raises an eyebrow, catching her own reflection on the metal wall in front of her, a flickering reminder. “Space is better than the Earth I remember. That place was little more than a dump.”

“That's why you joined the Alliance?” 

It might be her brain that's playing tricks on her but he sounds almost sincere asking that. 

Shepard looks at the stars again, trying to remember a then. Somewhere at the back of her mind, she can still be that girl. She who had been strong enough – but just barely – to pull herself up and away from a path leading absolutely nowhere; she who had thrown herself headlong into the first purpose that presented itself, so grateful for any cause that gave her life some frames and texture. Within months with the Marines, she had changed her hairstyle, sobered up, got herself an on-and-off boyfriend and started training with other biotics, washing away the notion of herself as a damn freak. 

“It certainly didn't convince me to remain groundside, that's for damn sure.” 

Zaeed observes her without speaking for a little while. 

“What about you?” she asks. 

She expects an insult or her question deflected through sheer nastiness – he's got a full arsenal of crap he pulls whenever he thinks she's asking too much. But instead, he merely shrugs. 

“Figured it couldn't be much worse than the life I would have had on Earth.” 

Once she had managed to enrage Tali, talking about home. For the quarians the lack of a home is an open wound, bitter and unhealed. For Shepard – and probably any Earthborn from the poorer parts of the planet, she thinks – the place that would have been home has left nothing but a vast hollow behind, a nothingness encompassing every other feeling of longing or homelessness. 

“No rose-tinted memories of the beautiful, if terribly polluted oceans and the people then?” She gives him a long, searching glance. He doesn't look away. For a moment, his gaze feels warm on her, like he's touching some soundly forgotten part of her consciousness, melting her defences around it. 

“Not one.” He looks away, snorts. 

“Yeah, me neither.” 

There's a finality in his expression and she knows the time for questions has passed for now. 

“I should let you go,” he says, to further underline this. “Later, Shepard.”

“Later,” she confirms, nodding. 

Then she makes room for Zaeed to pass by her in the small corridor, one of her hands fidgeting at the collar of her armour as she watches him leave.


	8. Looking out for number one

Tuchanka, the way he remembers it, is like an interface for chaos and goddamn destruction and Zaeed can't come up with one single reason to go there unless you're collecting a huge bounty. 

But of course Shepard can list a number of reasons – none of them involving any credits. 

She has let them know that they've got plenty of business on the Krogan homeworld, but she's as tight-lipped about the details as she is about everything else. The krogan pup wants some kind of assistance, Zaeed understands from his restless pacing down in the drop bay; he's been growling and grunting all through the night as well, making Zaeed wish – not for the first time – that they had filled the tank with poison instead of opening it. 

Bloody krogan. 

Their planet is as vile as you'd expect, surrounded as it is by radioactive rubbish and assorted waste – not to mention populated by the least accommodating species in the galaxy. 

Shepard orders a team to remain on the Normandy, another small group to go with Mordin to help prepare for his personal matters that they'll most likely devote a cycle or two to sorting out if the commander has her way, Zaeed thinks. Fuck, his head aches just thinking about it; Shepard seems to read his mind because she catches his gaze and offers that kind of smile he's begun to associate with her – a brief kind of smile, private and hidden. Lastly, she picks her small team of scouts.

“I'm venturing a wild guess here and will assume the krogan homeworld is going to require thick skulls and equally thick skin.” She stand in front of them, talking as she's typing coordinates and skimming through datapads. “Grunt and Zaeed, suit up.”

_Cheers, bitch._

They spend the transit immersed in their own thoughts and preparations. Grunt mutters to himself but neither Zaeed nor the commander is in any hurry to hear him elaborate on the scattered thoughts that run through his reptile mind. Krogan aren't famous for their profound ability for advanced philosophy. 

“Don't take deep breaths,” Zaeed mutters as the lucky few climb out of the shuttle. A deluge of dust and various stenches greet them. “You'll catch something."

They barely have time to take more than two steps outside before a merc recruiter shouts at them to keep their distance. Which means that Tuchanka is just as charming as he recalls it, even if they seem to have contracted a few more imposing guards to hold off aliens since he last was here on strictly confidential business – with a damn krogan warlord, no less. Even with that sort of companion, Zaeed had been kept on a leash like a bloody dog. 

A recruiting thug takes a step forward when they pass by. “The Blood Pack only recruits krogan, human!”

“Oh no!” Shepard deadpans, so quietly that only Zaeed can hear. “There go all my hopes and dreams.”

Zaeed shakes his head but can't hold back a grin. “Don't say that. You could pass for a krogan.”

Grunt snorts something disapproving and Zaeed gives him a glance; Shepard on the other hand ignores them both, marching on with the same confidence as always. She must know someone really goddamn important here, he gathers, to be able to move around with her gun loaded and her lack of reverence and respect for authorities intact.

As they make their way through the underground passages and up towards what seems to be a central area of some kind – what most races in the galaxy would call a town square – that’s slightly less of a bloody wreck, the number of krogan soldiers shouting at them to keep their distance decreases. Zaeed can sense their presence all the same. If you’ve worked your way through the galaxy you learn that some people – some goddamn species – you just leave the hell alone. Krogan are definitely one of those. Then again, Shepard hasn’t even managed to leave the bloody Rachni out of her own personal business so he can hardly expect her to play by the same rules as everyone else.

The area they step into is better lit than the passages since the roof is torn off and daylight seeps onto the dirty surroundings. He spots a few stations of various functions – some mechanics, a few supply stores, even a dog fighting pit. Zaeed comes to halt in front of it, feeling slightly nostalgic.

Damn, those were the days. Back when they’d just started up the Blue Suns and were young and stupid, they’d waste money on booze, dancers and betting all over the galaxy. There was the delusion of freedom after having left the Alliance filling their head with nonsense and the weirdly optimistic notions of youth clouding their judgements. That, and the fact that once you got it figured out, you can earn a hell of a lot of money on taking out bad guys for the profit of other bad guys. 

Zaeed had won half a fortune on pit fighting on Omega once, he recalls. Always had a knack for figuring out the one most likely to give up first. Unsurprising, really. That’s how you stay alive. If you're the best fighter like Shepard you can go with brute force. But if you’re neither the best nor the strongest - or an ambitious sod who's willing to work hard for it – you have to find out other people's flaws and put the knowledge to good use. Simple as that. 

”Is this really necessary?” Shepard frowns, looking down at the two animals who stands in opposite corners of the small rink, eyeing each other.

He shrugs. “They’re fighters like anyone else.”

”Yeah?” She sounds vaguely annoyed, as though she'd be irritated if she could just summon the enthusiasm for it. “At least we have a say in the matter before they ship us off and give us dog tags.”

Yeah, that’s why the bulk of the army, the ones sent off to remote colonies to die behind the curtains of the big heroic drama, is made up of factory workers and slum kids, he thinks but doesn’t say. Shepard knows this full well when she’s not trying so hard to be a goddamn saint.

“I'd bet my money on the dumb-looking ugly one,” he says instead. “Slow dogs fight harder.”

Shepard grins at him.

“Yeah, you would know,” she says teasingly, patting his back as she moves ahead. “Come on, we have no time for animal cruelty.”

There's a ripple – a doubtful and aggressive hum of voices – that goes through the entire place when Shepard approaches the spot where the leader of these clans have placed his version of a throne. And of course they are promptly blocked by an underling who insists they wait until called for. 

Zaeed instinctively places a hand on his gun as Shepard shakes her head. 

Then the clan leader himself gets to his feet and greets Shepard with what could almost pass as a warm and friendly handshake. Certainly warm and friendly by krogan standards, Zaeed thinks, watching the interplay with growing fascination. 

His own forays into the Krogan DMZ haven't been much to brag about, all things considered. The first time they had been dropped there to carry out a mission that was considered a success but demanded too high a price according to everyone but the goddamn idiot in charge. Zaeed had even protested against going in but they went anyway, with the objective to take out a crime lord associated with the bloody Shadow Broker. Fifty men had died and only three of them had left the place with all their limbs attached to their bodies. A hell of a lot more money for them to split, though, but regardless of what his reputation says about him, he's never been the kind of merc who kills his squad to get more credits. He doesn't go out on a goddamn limb for them, that's for damn sure, but he's not a mindless thug and he doesn't like to be mistaken for one. 

Zaeed looks up at the slice of sky they can see down here through the ruins. He had been here a second time as well, with Eira's squad of asari mercs – the mission had gone vastly better, but by the end of it, Zaeed had found himself surrounded by the Blood Pack in a one-way alley with no more at hand than a damn rifle and a private message on his omnitool: It's been fun. No hard feelings? E. 

Served him right for being such a bloody fool, he has to admit, but even among the more seasoned contractors it's considered unethical – or at the very least goddamn impolite - to betray your bedfellows.

He rubs his neck, shaking off the growing irritation. 

“Speak when spoken to, Uvenk,” the krogan leader snaps at one of the less grateful elements walking around on this waste of a planet, successfully bringing Zaeed out of his thoughts. “I'll drag your clan to glory whether you like it or not.”

And suddenly the odd friendship between the Commander of Normandy and the krogan warlord doesn't seem so odd any more, Zaeed thinks, when he catches Shepard smiling. A few testicles and a couple of hundred pounds of meat and she'd fit in just fine here.

“It's good to see you have things under control here, Wrex,” she says, and he can hear genuine appreciation in her tone. That's _rare_ ; most of the time, Zaeed has learned, she fakes it out or politeness or shrewdness or some combination thereof. But this she means. 

“I learned from the best, Shepard.” 

For what it's worth, Zaeed is willing to believe him. 

 

*

 

An hour or so later they're sitting in what the guard who had ushered them inside had referred to as the guest barracks – a cramped sort of place that stinks of burnt metal and meat. They don't seem to get a lot of welcomed guests on Tuchanka, that's for damn certain. 

“Paranoid sons of bitches.” Zaeed tosses some extra rounds of ammo on one of the three bunk beds, claiming it like a kid at camp. 

“Can't really blame them,” Shepard shrugs. “It's unexpected we're allowed to fight for Grunt in the first place.”

They've been ordered not to leave the area until the Rite has been completed. Probably worried they'll return to the Normandy to equip themselves with a fresh load of genophage, Zaeed figures. If they knew what good old Mordin had been up to during the war, Shepard's entire crew would undoubtedly be hanging from the walls in here as goddamn decoration. 

He doesn't feel thrilled in the slightest to be fighting for the krogan pup but there had been very little room for voicing his opinions as they had spoken with the clan shaman. Before Zaeed had even begun to point out the absurdity in risking their arses for someone who'd tear the Normandy apart if allowed, Shepard had volunteered him for the job. Nothing new under the sun. 

Shepard sits down on the bed next to Zaeed's. It seems the third bed is meant for Grunt, though Zaeed is fairly certain they won't see much of him until they stand on that ritually important ground, fighting “to success or death” as the shaman so nicely had put it. 

“I don't think sleep is such a good idea after having invoked the wrath of clan Uvenk,” Shepard says, firing up her omnitool and putting it on the bed. It gives off a faint sound as it announces that she has eleven messages in her private channel. “But we should get some rest.”

Zaeed shakes his head when he recalls how that particular conversation had played out. Crazy, _brilliant_ bitch. Over the years he's known a few sods foolish enough to play by the krogan rules - but they usually don't play on the krogan homeworld, surrounded by pissed off clan members. 

Then again, no one plays _any_ game as damn flawlessly as Shepard does. There's a streak of weirdly persistent admiration running through his thoughts, _tugging_ at something; he slumps down on the bed and directs his attention elsewhere. 

“I had no idea these things go through puberty,” he says as he's unhooking the top latch of his armour and removes the chest plate. 

“Yeah. One of those things you kinda wish you didn't know.” Shepard has slipped out of her plates as well and arranges the armour on the floor, right beside her bed. There's a soldier's arsenal of fluid knowledge in her movements; she doesn't even look at what she's doing. “Puberty is bad enough even without bloodrage.”

He amuses himself by trying to imagine Shepard as a teenager. From the extensive homework he did before signing up for this mission, he recalls reading something about how she used to run with gangs back on Earth. It had made more sense until he met her in person, but now that he's been around her for a while it almost seems plausible again to think of her in that context. No wonder she's such a sanctimonious hypocrite with that sort of background, he thinks, but without much venom. _Everyone's got their goddamn faults._

As Shepard turns her back on him to pull her boots off and place them at the side of the bed, Zaeed looks at her for a moment. She squats, stooped over her equipment and rummaging around for something; when she leans forward she reveals a chain of angry black letters covering the small of her back. _Non ducor duco._

He smirks. “Nice tattoo.” 

Immediately – probably instinctively – she pulls her top down over the ink and gives Zaeed a glare over her shoulder. 

“You're one to talk.”

Zaeed laughs. “It's such a goddamn cliché, Shepard.”

“I was nineteen. And completely wasted for that matter.” She sits down, crossing her legs and going through the compartments of her armour until she's found meal bars and food packages. He can hear a little shift in her voice, amusement creeping through it. “It was a stupid shore leave thing, we all did those on a dare. One of the girls got a damn eagle across her chest. Never wore low-cut tops again. At least I can cover mine up.”

She looks away, probably trying to mend the breach even these minor slips make in her well-polished armour. 

“I like it,” he says because - fuck knows why since it's ugly as hell - he does. 

“Shut up.” Shepard gives him a steely look and throws him a meal bar. Oatmeal with cinnamon. Grimacing a little at the mere sight of the cover he wonders why they even make meals imitating something as goddamn foul as oatmeal but if he's going to fight in some alien ritual bullshit tomorrow, he ought to eat. 

“So,” Zaeed says, taking a bite of the bar. “How did you earn yourself the right to do business on this pisshole?”

“It's a long story.” 

“Yeah. So?” He shoots her a glance. “We've got all night.”

 

*

 

Our most recent scar, the shaman had called it, this spot they're stuck in.

Zaeed thinks it looks more like a festering goddamn wound where the earth itself gets torn apart by the bullets and the creatures unleashed on them. The first waves of enemies are easy enough but as the fight drags on they're flagging in the environment, the relentless temperature and the goddamn noise that wears them down, too, in a different way. 

_Fuck,_ is his only thought as the thresher maw appears. 

_Fuck._

He's heard the tales, read the reports and made up his mind even without having seen one in real life before: you spot a maw, you run fast as hell in the opposite direction. End of the bloody story. But of course the woman giving the orders in this damn place isn't interested in something as simple and non-heroic as running away. Instead she sprints towards it, her heaviest weapon drawn and the biotic energy like an electric fire around her; she even manages to fire at it once before it spits its acid in her direction. 

“We'll bring it down!” Shepard bellows over the deafening battle cry rising from the throat of the injured maw. “ _Charge_!”

Zaeed all but slams into her as she's running past him, headed straight for the centre of the area where the only cover is a small crate of questionable sturdiness.   
_  
And they call me a reckless bastard.  
_  
But at least the fight is over much more quickly than he'd have expected – after what feels like mere minutes, he crawls up from the ground, wipes blood off his face and looks for the others. The krogan is tearing the maw corpse to shreds and Shepard is kneeling against a piece of rock; she doesn't look up when he's calling for her. 

“You all right, Shepard?”

“Sort of.” There's a rift in her composure that he only notices when he gets closer to her. She nods; the line of her jaw seems sharper than usual, her face taut with pain. “My shoulder's dislocated.”

Zaeed puts his gun aside and kneels down beside her. 

“Hang on.” He gets into a better position, grabbing her waist with one arm to lock her against him and prevent her from wriggling away. Goddamn hard with most soldiers and their instincts. She feels much stronger than she looks, a ripple of sheer muscle strength going through her body as he takes a firm hold of her dislocated arm. It's not the best idea – good old Chakwas will be livid - but Shepard is rarely picky about these things. She'd slap medi-gel on a chest wound if she could, ignoring any internal damage as long as the flesh gets mended. 

“Just do it,” she hisses through gritted teeth and he can feel her brace herself, pressing up against him. Her biotics soar in the few inches that separate them, making the air feel thick and charged. 

“You warp me and I'll break your arm,” he warns. 

Shepard only gives a grunt in response to that but the energy flow from her body appears a little more controlled as he pulls at her arm until she groans loud enough for him to figure the shoulder's temporarily back in its socket. 

“Better?”

“Yeah.” 

He rises to his feet again. Shepard seems to be busy breathing. Inhale, exhale, repeat. 

“I watched my entire crew get slaughtered by one of those,” she says suddenly. She draws a sharp breath and looks up at him. Something violent and unsteady flickers across her face when the rush of adrenaline fades away. Zaeed thinks of Zorya, thinks of waking up trapped behind a face that feels like a bloody mask. “Haven't seen a maw up close since.” 

“Well, at least you got to blow this one's brains out.” Zaeed nods towards the massive pile of wrecked thresher maw flesh in the distance. He holds out a hand in front of her and waits for her to grab it, then he pulls Shepard to her feet. She groans a little as she's straightening up, her free hand holding on to the injured shoulder. “That always helps.”

“Yeah,” she agrees. “It's brains or booze. Universal cures.”

“Pretty much covers it.” 

Well, not _quite_ , but he isn't going to go into that territory and risk having his balls served to him on a plate. 

Shepard looks out over the battlefield for a second before she squares her shoulders and holsters her gun. “Let's go. I want to tell Wrex I set a new record for this thing.” 

 

*

 

Shepard stands outside the shuttle, waiting for Grunt to wrap up his business with the Urdnots so they can all go back to the Normandy. It feels long overdue especially now when they're so close to being done here. 

She tries to immerse herself in checking her omnitool messages, rubbing the bridge of her nose as she skims over a few ads: a massive stream of the news logs she rarely has time to check and a few private messages from Miranda, asking for additional reports - “off the record”. Shepard doesn't reply. 

Miranda is never entirely content with being left behind when it comes to these special missions and there's a childish joy in denying her access. 

_You really do curse the lack of control chip, don't you, Lawson?_

Her head aches, a quiet, low-key throbbing behind her eyes and around her temples. With a small inward sigh she attempts to conjure up a mental image of herself soaked in hot water and with nothing but silence accompanying her. Perhaps a drink and then a long, undisturbed night in her own bed. That should do the trick, she decides. She's earned herself an evening of indulgence. 

It's been a successful stay at Tuchanka, all things considered. 

Overwhelming – she catches a glimpse of Mordin pacing around in the small space inside the shuttle, mumbling to himself – but successful. 

She nods at Zaeed who nods back at her and stops outside the entrance, too; he has been a strange kind of company during these past few days, offering his usual crude wisdom and irreverence in equal measures. It's a first, picking him for a longer mission like this, counting on him for more than grenades and bullets. But he's turned out to be a decent advisor and whatever his endless supply of faults, he's never boring to be around. 

“You gonna miss this stinking place then?” He folds his arms across his chest and leans back against the shuttle. His signature pose, she thinks with a jolt of warmth that surprises her. The head trauma is apparently worse than she's expected. 

Shepard makes a non-committal sound. “Yeah. Especially the bloodthirsty ecology.” 

There _is_ something bloodthirsty about this entire planet, as thought it's etched on its surface and spread out over the star cluster above. Blood. War. Death. In this, Tuchanka resembles almost every other world. But there's a hunger for revenge here like an echo running through time and space and it won't settle down – can't settle down because some things, some places, get coded into the genes of the people living there. 

In millions of years when the archaeologists are brushing the dirt off these cities they travel through now, treating all of this as nothing but fossils and proof of civilisations long gone, will they still see the scars on planets like this one, Shepard wonders. Will they be able to see what was right and what was wrong?

What will history make of the krogan fate? Of the Collectors? Of _her_? 

It's always odd to think of history but easier on planets like Tuchanka to remember its extreme premises: history is a living, evolving thing that will either vindicate or vilify you – unless it erases you altogether. At least in the face of that bleak knowledge, a lot of unimportant things fade away. 

She shuffles her thoughts and rearranges them around her composure as Grunt walks past her with a stern _Shepard_ , heading straight for the Normandy shuttle. There's satisfaction in the fact that he's formally submitted to her authority now, that he considers her his battlemaster and her cause important enough to risk his pureblood krogan ass for. That alone makes this trip worth it. That and seeing Wrex again, she decides, smiling to herself. 

“There are several breeding requests for Grunt,” EDI informs them as they all are aboard the shuttle. The krogan gives a pleased snort. “And one for Shepard.”

Zaeed laughs beside her. “Sounds about right.”

“Thank you, EDI.” Shepard purses her lips, but she can't deny that there's a particular brand of humour buried in those words. Hell, the request would make more sense than some of her attempts at romantic relationships anyway.

“Good to know that I have a backup plan.” She sits down and tips her head back against the headrest, allowing herself to close her eyes for a moment. “Maybe krogan males are easier to date. I hear inter-species romance is trendy.”

Her human companion raises an eyebrow, still visibly amused, but says nothing.

“Your genes in combination with krogan DNA is a genetically interesting concept.” Mordin offers. “All stages of pregnancy would make excellent research subject. Could krogan learn from human adaptability? Offspring would be strong. Enduring. Clever. Delivery would almost certainly end in death regardless of method. Could it be prevented? Possible. Worth looking into.”

“Mordin, let it go.” She keeps herself from pointing out that he should stay as far away as possible from anything that involves krogan DNA for the foreseeable future. And anything that requires a combination of the words 'delivery' and 'death', for that matter. 

“Yes.” The salarian nods. “Of course. No time for cross-breeding. Must focus on Collectors.”

Shepard stifles a groan; when she catches Zaeed's gaze it seems oddly _friendly_ – for lack of a better word - and she doesn't really know why, but it unsettles her.

 

*

 

The med bay is quiet apart from the murmuring voices coming from Ortiz and Gibbons, the two medical assistants who are currently checking up on a bad swelling on Zaeed's leg. The acid from the maw penetrates the best kinds of armour and requires additional medical care regardless of equipment – Shepard's right arm is another visible, foul-smelling proof of that. 

She grimaces when Chakwas finishes her treatment of the wound. 

“It's not every day I see these kinds of injuries,” she says, seeking Shepard's gaze. There's a slight hint of an unspoken question there but Shepard ignores it. _Brains and booze. Why can't it be that simple?_

“It's not every day I visit Tuchanka,” she says instead. “Both Tuchanka and I are grateful for that, I'd say.”

“I ran into Doctor Solus before.” Chakwas takes out a small scanner and presses it to Shepard's upper arm. Searching for oddities in the amplifiers that are wired throughout her nervous system, she knows. It can be a slight issue on some planets that seem intent on disturbing any alien life forms and it's always routine to check during medical exams, just in case. “He seemed to have reached some kind of breakthrough in his research.”

Shepard nods. During the three hour transit from Tuchanka, Mordin had gone through all stages from shock to acceptance via guilt and a small fit of anger and it makes complete sense that he's already back at his station, working his way into the night.

“Sometimes I wish humans worked like that.” Shepard confesses under her breath as Chakwas listen to her lungs and heart. 

“I'm rather relieved we don't, Commander.”

“Oh, I don't know. It would save therapists a lot of work.”

The doctor taps something into her computer. She reminds Shepard of Miranda, though Miranda doesn't like to small talk when she's checking every little level of every measurable entity in Shepard's _vastly expensive and utterly unique_ body. Chakwas finishes her typing by looking up and smiling a little. 

“Or we could accept that emotional reactions are as valid as physiological reflexes, Commander.” Her tone is calm but poignant. 

Shepard refrains from pointing out that accepting things as they are is hardly what the Alliance or Cerberus pay their famous commander for; the other woman falls silent, turning her attention to the computer again. When she lifts her gaze, it seems slightly troubled. It's possibly a sign of how highly the doctor regards Shepard that she shares these little emotional displays, but Shepard finds it somewhat disheartening all the same. Medical personnel, as far as she's concerned, are meant to smile and nod and say _everything looks peachy._ Even when they find ten tumours in your brain, they're supposed to exude total confidence. 

“Anything wrong?” Shepard rubs her neck – it's still sore and feels more stiff than it usually does after endless hours of battle. The damn mercs had almost wiped the floor with them at first, using every scrap of advantage that comes with the home turf. 

“There's a slight swelling here.” Chakwas flips through the pictures on her computer screen, pausing on one that she shows Shepard who can't really tell one picture of her brain apart from other pictures of her brain. “Have you experienced any head trauma in the field?”

“No more that usual.” She frowns, remembering the member of clan Uvenk. Remembering, too, how it had seemed a good idea at the time. “ _Right._ Well, I might have, come to think of it.” 

“She did headbutt a goddamn krogan,” Zaeed spells it out for her from across the room and Shepard sighs. No doctor-patient confidentiality among shipmates, apparently. At least not if your shipmate happens to be an old merc veteran who likes to rub her the wrong way for fun. 

Ortiz has a hard time holding back a little chuckle, turning her back on them. Chakwas on the other hand shakes her head, looking as tired as Shepard feels. “Sometimes I wonder if you are not truly a fourteen year old boy, Commander.” 

Shepard leans back on her hands. “Have you ran tests? You never know with Cerberus. Might have used spare parts from some of their facilities.”

Chakwas looks slightly horrified at first, but Zaeed laughs at the inopportune joke. 

“Just try to stay in bed for more than a few hours this time, Commander.” 

“Noted.”

“I mean it.” The doctor raises an eyebrow, her gaze fixed on Shepard who always finds it much more intimidating that she'd ever let on. She nods. “Bed. _Now._ ”

She hops down from the examination table and accepts the small cup of pills that Chakwas hands her without further instructions. She aches all over. Her body may have more cybernetics and metals than a small robot, but she's constantly on the verge of overplaying her hand and she knows it. It costs a great deal, being a match for everyone. All she can do is hope that it's worth it and dodge Chakwas's concern and constant questions. 

“Hey, Shepard?” Zaeed calls out as she's leaving the room. He's still having his thresher maw injuries taken care of and the angry infected edges of the wounds leave a dark trace in her. Shaking her head, she brushes it off. _He's getting paid. Hell, he's getting more credits from this than I am._

“Yeah?”

“You're one hell of a fighter.” 

She puts on a confident smile before she slips out of the door. “I know.” 

_Battlemaster. That's what I am. That's the deal._

And she doesn't have to turn around to know that everyone's gazes are following her long after she's walked out of sight. Even in the solitude of her cabin, she imagines she can feel them; she keeps her bruises hidden and her limp concealed and falls asleep before she's even turned off the light. 

 

 

\-------------

_  
A/N: Non ducor duco means “I am not led; I lead” which is quite a trite thing to have as a tattoo but then again, I always picture Shepard as predictable and a bit of a cliché when it comes to those things. (I also think she has awful taste in music and no idea whatsoever about clothes. My headcanon, let me show you it.)_


	9. Lines and limits

The unspoken deal after Tuchanka is that they all need some rest. 

Shepard takes the opportunity to grant Miranda's request of orbiting over Citadel space for a while, hoping that whatever errand she means to run will take enough time for Shepard's own plans to proceed unnoticed. There's something to be said about a commanding officer sneaking around her own ship hiding missions, of course, but then again there's something to be said about Cerberus in general. In this damned mess she blends in perfectly. 

She's convinced Joker to make a quick trip to the Dakka system – _one of these days I'm gonna say no, Commander_ – and calculates the risks in her head as she walks down to the lower deck. 

Zaeed glances up from his meal as she stops by the table where he sits alone with a bowl of some suspicious-looking stew. He seems to eat it with unenthusiastic determination, the way they eat most meals on this ship. 

“This is not an official order,” she says, keeping her voice low just in case.”But I want you ready to depart in an hour.” 

“Secret mission, Shepard?” His gaze searches for hers and when she locks it with her own, she can see a hint of curiosity there. 

“Something like that.” She nods, dismissively. The less they discuss these private little investigations she's agreed to help her crew out with, the better. “Hangar then, one hour. Don't be late.”

“Never am.” 

 

*

 

“This whole system's goddamn _screwed_ ,” Zaeed informs them later as they are all on board the Kodiak, waiting to approach the landing zone on Pragia. “Had a quick mission here once. This Asari commando on Omega who sent me after a batarian terrorist. So I chased the idiot out of some smuggler's hideout into the goddamn jungle.”

Shepard tears her focus away from the ill-boding sights below to her team beside her. “Let me guess, you poisoned him with a local treat? No, wait – you pushed him into a carnivorous plant!” 

Both options are way too refined for his tastes and contains too little gore, but Zaeed gives an amused grunt at her suggestions. “ _Her_ , actually.”

“Was I right about the method at least?” Shepard gives him a glance, thinking she'd grin if they weren't heading for a sure disaster at some questionable Cerberus facility. For all his annoying machismo games, Zaeed at least makes for entertaining company. One she has stopped pretending she isn't actively seeking out, at that. When she had accidentally mentioned it to Joker a couple of days ago he had merely given her a strange look, then shrugged and said he shouldn't be surprised, really. 

“No, I stood by, watched her being eaten by wild animals.” Zaeed half-shrugs, that simple gesture he does so often that it seems to be part of his body by now, a motion etched into his lines. “Easiest goddamn job I've ever had. Didn't even break a sweat.”  
 _  
Zaeed's like you, but he takes checks._

_Shut up, helmsman,_ Shepard retorts in her head, watching Zaeed check his rifle for the second time since they boarded the shuttle. He looks up, the corners of his mouth twitching and she has a hard time holding back a grin. 

“Get a fucking room, you assholes.”

Opposite her, Jack shakes her head with an annoyed look on her face, impatience written in every line and beneath every shadow of her skin. There's a lethality to her that makes something inside Shepard twitch, as though she's staring right into an open wound that has little prospect of healing regardless of how much medical care she'll send in its general direction. 

Before anyone has time to say anything else, EDI cuts in, informing them of multiple thermal signatures from the complex below and Shepard looks at her small team once more as they leave the shuttle and enter the run-down facility. 

 

*

 

It's a quick job, finishing off the mercs in the building but the heaviest part of the mission still remains even as they wipe the blood off their guns and loot the fallen enemies for valuable goods. 

Jack's past has never appeared more like a disease than it does in here, never more disgusting, never more deadly in all its cruel misery. The knowledge – old and new – blend in Shepard's head, fastens on her skin and she feels the urge to take a shower. 

_Filth._

They stand in what used to be the room where Jack lived as a little girl. Even as the proof pile up around them, Shepard finds it difficult to take in. It's not that she doesn't believe it – she has never had a hard time believing in horrific things. One of the rare benefits of her upbringing. It's just that it still seems as confusing as it has been for Jack, re-learning her own history. 

“ _Fuck_ this,” Jack says, in a confused, harsh voice that scrapes against the surroundings, like nails on metal. She folds and her arms across her chest, unfolds them again. She's pacing restlessly, checking for markings on the walls and on the desk, examining every little thing like a cop looking for clues. 

“Hey, you need a moment?” Jack shrugs hastily as though trying to escape some invisible touch from Shepard who backs away immediately. “Take your time. I'll be right outside.”

Out in the corridor things seem less dire; Zaeed pokes at some pile of garbage with his boot, making a grimace as the rubble reveals an old textbook. _ABC for crazy biotics._ There’s a twinge of something almost guilty in her chest as she looks at Jack in the other room, her presence in here an oddity in itself. She wasn’t meant to return. She wasn’t meant to leave. 

“This is why I’m Alliance Navy,” Shepard mutters under her breath, so low only Zaeed can hear. There's an answer in her words, a long-overdue answer to a question he once asked her with a cold sneer as they visited the Citadel. _Why do you put up with this bullshit?_

Zaeed doesn't say anything but she's caught his attention, she can tell by the way he throws her a glance. 

“The Alliance have their fair share of assholes too,” she says. “I know that. _Everyone_ knows that. But they don't do shit like this.” 

A moment of silence passes between them; a moment when everything seems to go completely still. Jack is motionless in her old room of nightmares and childhood traumas, the creepy echoing sounds of the facility is ebbing out and when Shepard looks at Zaeed he's watching her, a thoughtful expression on his face, as though he's turning her statement over in his head. She knows he resents the Alliance. She's even willing to bet he has good reasons for it. Because she's learned, gradually and recently, that he's got his own set of ideals somewhere deep down, beneath the reckless bounty hunter routine and the arrogance. 

Now he shrugs, a gesture of semi-admission carefully hidden behind his usual composure. 

“Looks like a lot of kids died in these experiments, at any rate.” 

“Yeah.” She flips her omni-tool open. “I wonder if there were others who made it out alive.” 

If there are, they might want to track them down, see if anything can be done for them. She makes a mental note to forward this intelligence to Anderson. If anyone can help them, it's him. 

“I've done a lot of bad shit, but this...” Zaeed doesn't seem to pay attention to what she's saying. He shakes his head, eyes fastened on Jack who's marching out of the room and into the corridor to join them. “Can't believe they kept _kids_ here.” 

There are limits, Shepard knows from countless experience. 

Limits to what you put up with, to what you can stomach. Even most criminals she's encountered over the years draw the line somewhere; despite the profitable market most people don't turn to slavery or trafficking. They stick to drugs and weapons and illegal tech, washing their hands at night and turning a blind eye to the atrocities around them because they wouldn't be able to do what they do if the let themselves know. It's what makes the galaxy such a pisshole but it's also what makes even the harshest people human. 

There are _limits_ and she's just witnessed Zaeed's. 

 

*

 

Back on the shuttle, a tension hangs uneasy and stifling in the air between the three of them. 

Jack is fidgeting with a lighter, one hand drumming against the seat to accompany the heavy thunder and rain that surrounds then. 

Shepard looks at her, forces herself to observe the raw pain in the other woman's eyes without turning away like she'd prefer. _I don't have time for this, we don't have the time._ Stifling a grimace at her own practical callousness, Shepard thinks of Akuze. It's not nearly the same, but it's the closest she gets. Afterwards she had received the best aid the Alliance could whip up – drugs, therapy, the possibility to beat the crap out of well over twenty training dummies, alternating between her own bare hands and her strongest waves of biotics – but Jack's trauma is unhealed and her only solution has been a downward spiral of violence. 

It makes Shepard feel helpless and that's not a feeling that goes well with her personality. 

As the first explosives go off inside the facility the entire shuttle jerks, almost toppling over from the force field they've created. Shepard bangs the wall behind her in a wordless kind of command – _faster_ – when suddenly the entire building goes up into the atmosphere, blown to pieces. She falls forward but is kept from crashing to the floor by a hand on her arm and seconds later, she is the one who keeps Zaeed upright by yanking hold of his knee, pushing him back in his seat. 

Glancing sideways at him, she notices that he looks at her too, soaked from the rain just like her and with the same grim expression on his face. 

She looks away again though she lets her hand remain on his leg just a few seconds longer. 

 

*

 

That same night, Shepard finally takes Kasumi up on her long-standing offer of having a few drinks down in Port Observation. 

They sit together on the couch, watching the slices of space just outside the Citadel be still around them. Always something special with space when they're not moving through it at the speed of light, Shepard thinks, trying to shed the memories from today. To no avail. 

“It's good Jack could get some closure, I suppose.” Kasumi says, habitually in tune with other people's thoughts and moods. It's an uncanny preciseness that Shepard has learned to appreciate rather than find annoying. “I don't really _like_ her but I get it. I think.”

Shepard nods. “She's been through a lot.”

“Seems like a criteria to end up on this ship, Shepard.” Kasumi reaches for one of the two bottles on the floor, one blue and one yellow, hesitating for a fraction of a second before opting for the yellow one. 

“Yeah.” 

They talk about recent missions for a while, swap stories of places and planets and people until they end up discussing the crew on Normandy, which is one of Kasumi's favourite topics, drunk or not. 

“The Alliance major back on Horizon,” she begins as they're starting on their third drink and the sky in front of them has morphed into a comforting dark shade of blue. “You were close?”

A little stitch of that familiar, sprawling hurt that's connected to anything even remotely related to the original Normandy passes, before Shepard replies. 

“We were good friends. He... meant a lot to me.” She looks at the glass in her hand. “We broke the rules together, risked our entire careers. That sort of thing is rare. It does something to you.”

“He's handsome, too.” Kasumi adds, ever the smooth therapist. 

Shepard smiles. There's no denying that she has thought the same thing on several occasions, that she has let her mind wander into some future shore leave when she would have the time to scratch on Kaidan's surface and he would leave his cautious self-control behind long enough to give her what she can only assume would be a great time. He's got the intensity for it, the focus. 

“He's not really my type,” she says, even so. Alcohol makes her nothing if not honest. 

That doesn't seem to surprise Kasumi, who's already concluded that Shepard's out of her mind when it comes to men since she doesn't want to jump Jacob Tayler like a lovesick puppy. That is apparently what all sensible women should want. 

“I don't think you _have_ a type, Shepard,” she says, simply. “Or if you do, it's the kind of type you'd do best in trying to avoid.”

_Touché, Miss Goto._ Shepard gives a small laugh and shrugs, not even bothering to hide her unwillingness to dig deeper into this issue. There's been too many mistakes made in that area; her romantic past is crowded with men who are too old, too forbidden or too damn married and women who promise a world of sweet nothings only to be gone in the morning. Better to just let it be. Devote herself to her job. It almost works, too, at least when she's not drinking. 

“I wonder if Jacob would join us if we asked,” Kasumi says on cue, not without that certain longing you tend to fail at hiding from your own voice when you've sedated your self-preservation with alcohol. There has been quite a few nights like that in her life, she knows the pattern. Play it cool until that fourth beer when you're suddenly offering your body to the hot guy who turns out _not_ to be a bartender but the new helmsman. _Jane Shepard, the intergalactic fucking queen of drunken flirting,_ as a fellow marine had put it once. 

Shepard grins to herself. “Why don't you ask him?”

“Nah.” The other woman turns her drink in her hands, shrugging. “He's too focused on the mission.”

“Unlike me?” Shepard raises an eyebrow, pouring herself another drink from the blue bottle. It's some kind of scotch that feels safer to drink than most things in this bar of theirs. She's always been an old-fashioned drinker, preferring Earth brands and the occasional bottle of Asari wine. 

Up until fairly recently she definitely hasn't been one to drown her sorrows while on a mission, though. Not until shore leave, when the bars have always held such promise to her even if all they've ever offered in reality are hangovers from hell and a few ill-advised one-night-stands. 

Dying and being put back together by a terrorist organisation can apparently break you of your most staunch habits, she concludes, not sure if she's going to consider it a blessing or a curse. 

“You're focused enough for all of us, Shep. But you know how to let go once in a while.” Kasumi smiles and raises her glass. “It's a _good_ thing, don't look at me like that.” 

 

*

 

It's been a hell of a day. 

Nothing unusual perhaps, but there's a bad taste in his mouth from having cleared out that goddamn Teltin facility. A rotten piece of Cerberus history that he's not sure he wants to know about, but it's too late for that now. 

Zaeed sneers to himself, looking out his window at the Citadel beneath them. The cycles seem to spin faster around them, seem to shift quick and restless, reminding them that time is running out. They recruit, train and fight and he tries to keep focus on the mission and the credits afterwards, but it's easier than it used to be to get distracted by the shit they run into. His work is straightforward enough in most cases – he gets a gig, he completes the gig and he gets paid. No strings attached. This mission keeps growing every goddamn day, spiralling out of control and the strings from it keep wrapping themselves around them. By the end of this run, he knows with certainty, he will _have_ to retire since they've managed to piss off half the galaxy and placed a billion bounties on their own heads in the process. 

There are so many things to take into consideration. 

Shepard brings him to planets he's never ever heard of in systems most cruisers won't find. She takes him to fucked up places that makes him realise that all things considered, the terror he's caused won't stand a chance in comparison to what other bastards are up to. 

He's not sure what to make of that. Or what to make of _anything_ this crew and its notorious commander gets up to, if he's entirely honest with himself. 

“Hey, Zaeed.” Shepard's voice interrupts his thoughts.

It's been a while since she stopped by and he has taken way too much notice of her absence, he realises suddenly, the insight landing with an annoyed little snap at the back of his mind. 

“How's the biotic bitch coming on?” he asks and turns around, facing her. 

“She still wants to kill every person she sees but she does seem troubled about it.” Shepard gives a little shrug. “So that's an improvement, I guess.”

“Can't say that I blame her.”

“Yeah, me neither.”

There's something there, Zaeed figures, something between them that runs like a shared piece of knowledge and understanding through certain situations. They both know what it's like being a poor kid with shitty options and no one to turn to. She doesn't have to spell it out for him; he has never told her his own story but he can see that she's already guessed the gist of it. You watch enough people you know get killed or raped and not nearly enough people who get punished for it – in the end you can offer your gun to the military like most working class kids and ghetto brats or you can go off on your own. Not much else to do for a sodding earth kid with no parents unless you want to get shot smuggling someone else's drugs across the galaxy. Zaeed had joined his first merc company when his mother died. He hadn't been much more than a kid, certainly not old enough to be trusted with any missions on his own, but he had his father's gun and nowhere else to go and most mercs aren't too picky about what kind of meat they pile up in front of their enemies anyway. 

It will get you killed or turn you into a tough son of a bitch and there no doubt which category the two of them fit into. 

Shepard gives him a long, searching glance. 

She's drunk, he can tell as much from her easy smiles and relaxed posture, though she's not half as wasted as she had been on Ilium when he had to help her back to the Normandy. Or that night on Omega when she had passed out on the floor in the men's restroom and blamed her two years of being dead, he thinks with a grin. 

“What?” she asks, frowning. 

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

Zaeed reaches for the pack of smokes he's got stashed away – aware that the damn AI will harass him within seconds – and decides that the best thing about today is that he managed to make a quick stop at the Citadel marketplace to stock up on necessities. Best place to get his favourite brand of cigars, no contest. And his booze of choice, too. The Citadel has always been grand that way. 

“Did you know you can turn EDI off if you want some _privacy_?” Shepard walks up to the monitor and taps something in. Within a few seconds, EDI's voice appears, asking if the commander really means to shut the system down in the cargo hold. Shepard confirms her command with a grin and waggles her eyebrows at Zaeed. “No need to thank me.”

“Wasn't going to.” He can't help but grin back at her. There's a certain appeal to her drunken persona that lacks all the uptight Alliance façades of her sober counterpart. If they survive this he makes a mental note to get her wasted one last time. For entertainment, if nothing else. 

"Give me a cigar," Shepard says suddenly. 

"You have any idea how goddamn expensive-"

"Give me one." She holds out her hand in front of his face, as though she expects him to spit a cigar into her palm, like some old-fashioned candy machine he's seen in photographs. 

“You don't even fucking _smoke,_ Shepard.”

“It happens.” 

He taps the bottom of the pack twice, releasing two fine pieces of tobacco – exquisitely hand-made and so moist he can still smell the oil. There's something goddamn _erotic_ about a really brilliant cigar and he wonders if it's completely wasted on his commander. 

“Say 'please'.” If she can be a bitch, he's damn well allowed some counter-moves. 

She looks him straight in the eyes and he can see a flicker of something unfamiliar there, buried beneath the usual crude humour she serves him. 

“I don't think you will ever hear me say please, Zaeed.” 

She may be drunk, but she's still sharp as a razor. Damn woman. 

“Is that a challenge?” he asks because he can't back down now and let her win this little contest of theirs. 

Shepard laughs. “In your dreams.”

With amusement masked as a sigh, he lets her have one of the treasures in his hand and she takes it unceremoniously, leaning in to let him light it for her as well. She is mere inches away from his face; he can smell her mingled scent of alcohol and Normandy soap and something vaguely minty that he assumes is coming from her hair. 

“Thanks,” she says in a low voice. 

Her tongue darts out to wet her lips before she closes her mouth around the cigar and inhales, tilting her head back, exposing the curve of her neck. For some reason it seems painfully deliberate; Zaeed folds his arms across his chest and glares at the stars outside instead; such a boring fucking image, the starry sky and the great wide space and all those things humans used to wax poetic about before they actually went out there and realised it's just rocks. And a hell of a lot of gas. 

Shepard rubs him the wrong way. And the right way. And any goddamn way in between, unlike most idiots he runs into. She's got balls, this one. Integrity and lethality in equal measures. The kind of woman he'd chase across the galaxy, if she wanted to play the game - he's always preferred women who could crush his skull, women who are just as likely to beat the crap out of him as they are to accept his seedy proposals. 

Not that he'd make one, not to her. Not beyond this standard procedure teasing. 

Shepard's different. 

“You're not half as vile as I first thought, Zaeed,” she offers, when they've smoked in silence for a good five minutes. 

“Cheers, bitch.” He says it without venom. 

She laughs. “Oh come on, admit you wanted to feed me to the vorcha on Omega at first.” 

Zaeed makes a non-committal sound covering everything from vorcha to the Thresher maw at Tutchanka. But on Tutchanka she had also impressed the krogan by proving herself a battlemaster with no match and Zaeed had to stop pretending he wasn't already fond of her because if he can't bloody well like a woman who head-butts a krogan into submission, he needs to make new rules. 

_Fond of her._ He scoffs inwardly. 

“And now?” she presses on. He's uncertain what she's after tonight. Most likely she's just a needy drunk like most people. 

“Well, you certainly never bore me, Shepard.” He hears his voice come off as much rougher than he intended it. It's the damn cigars. “I'll give you that.”

He doesn't mention how goddamn _rare_ it is, how many things in this dump of a galaxy that leave him cold, that just brush past him without making any lasting impression whatsoever; he doesn't say that he's not taking missions for the money any more, that he's just accepting whatever task that manages to make him feel some kind of thrill or excitement; he doesn't add that he's seen and done so much that he's just so bloody bored with all of it that he can't even come up with a retirement plan involving something beside a load of explosives and a nice spot on the galaxy map where he can blow them all up and go out in style. 

She turns her head at that, leans against the desk with one hand and looks at him for a long time, just looks at him with a serious expression and eyes that are deep and dark. 

“We're heading for the Migrant Fleet tomorrow,” she says eventually, steering them back into territory well within the usual regulations. 

“Okay,” he says. He has some fragmentary recollection of what they're going to do there, snippets of conversation caught and easily forgotten again. Not that it matters. They'll be debriefed in the morning, like the good little soldiers they pretend to be. 

Shepard gets to her feet after some struggle and heads for the door; before she has entered the corridor outside she leans back inside his quarters and smiles, a somewhat more sober smile than before but with the same touch of alcohol. 

“Thanks for the cigar, Zaeed.”

“Yeah. It won't happen again,” he retorts and hears her chuckle to herself before the sound of the elevator tells him she's gone.


	10. Shepard vas Normandy

The sky above her head is too bright. 

Groaning, Shepard closes the shutters and sits up, rubbing her forehead in an attempt to get rid of the pressing headache. 

Alcohol always makes her sleep badly and this had been no exception; she has spent the last two hours with her omni-tool and the extranet, in some vain attempt at making up for lost hours of work by reading and re-reading every report she's saved on the quarians and their culture. She'd like to pretend she just wants to be well-prepared for today's adventures but of course it comes back to her soldier training, this incapability of being derelict in her duty, if only for a couple of hours. R&R is for others; she's never been particularly skilled at it. 

She remembers Kasumi having complimented Shepard on her ability to relax last night. It seems ironic, now.   
Another thing she remembers is hanging on to a scotch bottle – a blue bottle, which had seemed important somehow - for far too long, only stopping when she had begun to feel her tongue loosen to a point where she would have made a fool of herself, had she stayed. No one with as rigid self-control as Jane Shepard of the Normandy should ever be that drunk. Normal people have a couple of things they lock up carefully – she has an arsenal vast enough to fill a small system. 

That, too, she remembers telling Kasumi who had laughed. _You're like one of those ancient dolls, Shep. A matryoshka. My grandmother had one of those._

She also vividly recalls flirting with Zaeed, after that last drink Kasumi had insisted on pouring her before she left the Port Observation where the stars had begun to move around them. 

Why she hadn't just gone to bed, Shepard doesn't know. Probably because she lacks survival instincts outside of the battlefield after her recent gene modification or because she's counting on dying, for real this time. It brings a certain amount of leeway, conscious or subconscious. Just every once in a while, though, it would be nice if her subconscious wanted something wholesome and nourishing, like a good meal or a nice long chat with Garrus. But no. Instead it had insisted on pressing on with some casual soldier flirting just to see if the grizzled old merc respects her enough not to take advantage of her - extremely brief - moment of inferiority. At least that's what she assumes she had been after – for purposes that are shady, at best. 

_No._ She shakes her head. _Let's not go there._

Down in the mess hall with a mug of coffee in her hands the jumble of irritated thoughts clear up enough for her to straighten her back and look up at the rest of the crew walking in and out of there. The familiar, invisible weight returns to her frame, as part of her morning routine. Her crew. Her _responsibility._ In many ways it's worse now, here, without the framework of Alliance principles and regulations because these people are here because of her, not because they're military. Doctor Chakwas smiles at her in a recent memory: _Shepard, our immovable centre. A place for a person to stop and catch her breath._

It's no wonder, she decides as she nods towards Garrus and Tali, that she needs to take the world off her shoulders every once in a blue moon. Tali stands accused of _treason_ and today - as though they don't already have more than enough on their plate - they'll need to go to the Migrant Fleet and do everything in their power to intervene. Not because it matters to the galaxy, but because it matters to Tali who'll be crushed if she's exiled. Shepard has yet to figure out how she is going to play a trial – politics is not her forte and there's nothing in her past or her training that suggests she's going to be more successful at this than anyone else. She hasn't told Tali that, of course. With any luck, the anger Shepard feels at the thought of her friend being accused of such an uncharacteristic, absurd crime will be useful to stir her in front of the Flotilla. She does some of her best work when she's angry, after all. And, incidentally, some of her worst. 

When she looks at the Tali now, it's painfully visible to everyone that she's tense to the point of breaking and the sight tugs at something in Shepard's chest. There's not going to be a sweet homecoming today. 

“Headache?” Zaeed's rough drawl almost makes her jump but she catches herself and turns, slowly, to glare at him over her mug. The corners of his mouth twitch. 

“I'll live,” she says curtly, taking a mouthful of coffee to buy herself some time. 

He slumps down opposite her with his tray and Shepard wonders if he's going to poke cruelly at her faint traces of shame from last night or he's going to be decent for a change. 

Amazingly, he seems to opt for the latter. That's the second time he's surprised her in less than twenty-four hours and she can't help but wonder what he's playing at. 

“Heard you're going to be a lawyer today,” he says casually though not without his trademark brand of dry amusement. If there's anything she's learned about Zaeed, it's that he enjoys watching Alliance officers making fools of themselves. There's an unspoken ' _good luck with that_ ' hanging in the air. 

Shepard frowns, feeling her previous irritation creep up on her again. “Tali has done a lot for us, I'm going to return the favour.”

He looks like he's about to say something else, but they're both interrupted by Chakwas who takes a seat besides Zaeed and smiles at Shepard across the table. 

“You are aware, of course, that you need clearance to leave the Normandy after your recent injuries,” she points out in her most motherly tone that always means _don't you dare disobey me, Commander._

It takes a few seconds to realise that she's talking about Tuchanka, which means that Kasumi and Miranda aside, they had managed to sneak away to Pragia without anyone noticing them. Shepard takes a weird sort of pleasure in that knowledge, as though she's still a new recruit, eager to try to cheat the system. Except this time around it's Cerberus she's cheating and not for the hell of it but for the fact that she doesn't trust them not to turn on her in the middle of this suicide mission. 

“Sure,” Shepard nods, downing the rest of her coffee. “I'll just go get some breakfast first.”

 

*

 

The command centre gives her the focus she needs as she walks into it, still feeling the aftermath of Doctor Chakwas scans tingle on her skin. She had been evaluated and deemed good to go, which she already knew but now it's official. It's always simpler to make things official even on a non-Alliance vessel. 

Shepard's omni-tool tells her the scientists are still working on decoding and analysing the reaper data they've gathered over the past few months and all results so far indicate they ought to wait another few weeks, perhaps months, before they can approach the Omega 4-relay with any prospects of getting through it alive. Mordin confirms the research and if she can't trust Cerberus then at least she can trust her mad salarian scientist; she knows that with certainty. 

“Commander, there are a few messages for you,” Yeoman Chambers informs her and Shepard nods. 

Once she's done she heads for the cockpit to get a run-down of the course to Tali's fleet and slumps down in one of the famous leather seats in there. 

“You look tired,” Joker observes, craning his neck to get a better look at her. 

“Yeah,” Shepard admits. “Didn't get a lot of sleep.”

Joker's greatest merit, as far as Shepard is concerned, is that he doesn't coddle her. She can count on him to give her an opinion or a bad pun or some light-hearted banter in the face of deadly threats, but she knows that he'll never look at her with worry or concern. They never get serious with one another, for better or worse, though mostly for the former. 

“Don't tell Tali,” he says now, simply and turns around again. 

Shepard folds her arms across her chest and tips her head back. “Wake me up when we're getting close.”

“Aye, aye, ma'am.”

 

*

 

Zaeed has never understood the damn quarians. 

Not only do they keep to themselves in the galaxy, obsessed with preserving a dying culture like they've got some kind of universal claim on having a shitty history, but they're also ridiculously bad at putting their own skill and prowess to proper use. They could trade, swap tech for resources and ships or seek employments outside of their own cramped little world, but those dodgy pilgrimage trips aside, they seem largely uninterested in interacting with the galactic society. Unless they want to whine about their situation, of course. 

_So your homeworld is screwed_ , he thinks as he watches the confrontational scene with mild interest, hears the admirals and Shepard argue about what Tali has and hasn't done and what may or may not happen in the fleet's future. _Well cry me a goddamn river._ Lots of planets are environmentally or economically fucked up, most colonies are crammed shock-full of immigrants with no place to go and unlike the quarians, most races didn't build their enemies themselves. There are enough poor sods out there who did fuck all to end up in deep shit for Zaeed to pity some self-righteous idiots who couldn't see that experimenting with creating a servile slave race would come back to bite them in the ass. 

At the end of the day, after an endless amount of geth and pompous speeches, Shepard walks away with her mission accomplished. 

To no one's surprise. 

And Shepard wouldn't be Shepard if she didn't tell the pilot kid to remain docked overnight, giving Tali a chance to spend some time with her family. Zaeed suspects Shepard would orbit over the goddamn Omega 4-relay if someone on the Normany had relatives there, though he doesn't really mind some downtime today, to let the nasty geth wounds heal, if nothing else. He'd taken a heavy blow during a close encounter with a geth prime and its pulse cannon and he knows the turian had been knocked unconscious by a similar thing. 

They had expected diplomacy but ended up tearing a whole bunch of geths to pieces and Zaeed is pretty damn sure he's not the only one who prefers that outcome. 

He had seen pure, _obvious_ relief in the commander's eyes as she realised that her task would contain as much fighting as talking. Not that the clever bitch had needed to worry about her speech, of course. Shepard can work a goddamn crowd and only coyness and false modesty prevents her from knowing that full well. 

Besides, she's a military through and through and even Zaeed knows enough about traditional military bullshit to recognise a classic military ploy when he sees one. It's her trademark, too. Strengthen whatever weak alliance she has formed by focusing on a common enemy. He doubts anyone does it half as good as the arrogant, sanctimonious yet oddly appealing woman who is now eating supper with her crew, seated opposite Zaeed and Garrus in an half-empty mess. 

“It's always the fathers,” Garrus says beside Zaeed who shoots the turian a glance. Shepard had been tight-lipped about what they'd found on the Alarei but for those of them who were there, the truth is already out and there's no point in denying it. 

“Lair of the daddy issues, this ship,” Shepard agrees. She's half-way into a large serving of Gardner's latest stew, and one of the few on Normandy who seems to be able to eat almost anything she's offered. “I swear I'm becoming more and more grateful I never knew mine.”

Garrus looks at her, surprised. Zaeed wonders if turians have some kind of heavy cultural stigma associated with abandoning one's offspring. Among humans back on Earth it has always been a grand tradition for males, at least. “You didn't know him at all?”

Shepard shakes her head, swallowing her food. “Negative. If my mum had any clue, she didn't say.”

Zaeed's old man hadn't exactly been a source of pride either. A violent son of a bitch who had tormented his mother until Zaeed finally got old enough to turn the tables and beat the crap out of him. _Next time, I'll kill you._ Then his father had left and his mother had sobbed into her empty wine bottles for a week, claiming Zaeed had destroyed the family. _Daft bloody bitch._

“Huh,” Garrus responds to that, returning his attention to his meal. 

“So, you figure they'll go to war?” Shepard looks at them both but Zaeed is pretty sure the question is meant for the turian. 

“Probably,” he says.

“It would take one crazy admiral to wage a war in the middle of this intergalactic mess,” Shepard mutters.

Zaeed puts down his fork, decidedly done with the stew now. He'll remember to pick up some bar or something later. Gardner's outdone himself when it comes to inedible shit this afternoon. 

“Hardly unheard of,” he cuts in; reaching for his bottle of water, he leans back in his chair and watches Shepard. 

He guesses she still feels the hangover from last night and it amuses him to see her squirm for a change – he doesn't often get to have the upper hand when dealing with her. Then again, she squirms goddamn subtly, which takes away at least half the fun. 

“Still,” she says and now she's looking him in the eyes. It's a first today; her gaze is unwavering, composed. “They know the price of war.”

“Doesn't stop anyone from fighting,” the turian points out and you don't generally contradict turians when they're speaking of war. 

“It _should_ ,” Shepard says even so, because naturally she has to have a different opinion. 

Zaeed smirks to himself. 

 

*

 

As though the commander is making up for several relatively calm days in a row, she calls for a debrief early the following morning. Zaeed has barely made it out of the shower when he spots her standing in his quarters, arms folded across her chest. 

“You're not reading your messages,” she says before he's even walked into the room himself. 

“You want me to bring my goddamn omni-tool to the shower?” Zaeed retorts, brushing past her; he's still not wearing anything but a towel tied around his waist and he's pretty sure that's a breach of some uptight Alliance protocol right there, to be half-naked in front of your commanding officer. Lucky thing they're on a Cerberus vessel. 

When he glances at her, he can see that she's fixed her gaze on his face, as if she's afraid to catch an unwelcome sight if she lets it wander freely. He battles the impulses to tease her but decides that he can live without her boot in his crotch so instead he gets into his underwear and trousers with his back turned to her. 

“Debrief,” Shepard says, in an unamused tone. “Ten minutes.”

“That's all?” He looks at her over his shoulder, then turns around completely to search for his undershirt and as he does so, he notices that the commander hesitates briefly, her mouth opening and closing again. He raises an eyebrow. It's unusual for her not to be blunt – or to come down just to nag about a damn meeting, for that matter. She's a lot of things, but she's not a mother hen. If you don't make it in time, she'll start without you and never let you hear the end of it afterwards. 

“I've got intel for you,” she says eventually. “The latest info we've managed to find about Vido's whereabouts.”

If Zaeed allows his brain to go there, he can still work up a shitload of anger towards Shepard for interfering with a plan that had ensured Vido's painful death and then, after having turned the anger over in his head for a few cycles, it had also been focused a little towards himself. He realises in retrospect that he could have made the commander understand the whole thing if he had put his mind to it. He hadn't because he had been so damn obsessed with doing it his way. Anger is almost more consuming, he's learned, if you carry a part of the blame yourself. 

“Yeah?” he manages, though his tone is rough and angrier than he intends. 

She nods after a beat, opening her omni-tool to transfer her files to his. “It's decoded. But it has only passed through secure channels.” 

“How old?” 

“Received it this morning.” 

He doesn't ask how bloody early she gets up in the mornings to have time for this. He doesn't really care. What's important to him right now is the information in those documents, the possibility of getting closer to Vido once more. When he gets his next chance, he's not going to let anything stop him. And while the irony of planning anything at all after a suicide mission isn't lost on him, he allows himself the delusion that he's going to get out of this, too, the way he gets out of everything else. 

And if he doesn't, well, chances are that Vido goddamn Santiago will meet a really horrific death anyway, dragged away by a collector to rot away in some pod. He almost hopes for that outcome.

Shepard leans against the table again, supporting her weight with one hand as she looks intently at Zaeed. 

“Apparently he's branched out. It seems he's into human trafficking these days,” she says, the contempt in her voice making it thick. He wonders if she's actually shocked to learn this. Zaeed sure as hell isn't. Colonies are starting to go missing, the Council are covering it up with political bullshit, people are in a state of fear – sounds like a perfect opportunity for someone like Vido to swoop in and get down to business, reassured that he'll get out of it unnoticed. This is so damn far from what they once intended and Vido has always claimed to be one for the unexpected twists and turns, like a retarded fucking child aiming for one thing: chaos. _Didn't expect that, did you, Massani?_

Suddenly he feels tired. 

“Don't sound so goddamn surprised,” he replies. “And next time I tell you someone's a fucking asshole who deserves to die, _trust_ me.”

She observes him for a beat, probably considering the absurdity in trusting him, Zaeed thinks with those last scraps of anger jolting through him. For someone who seems to be an expert judge of character, she gets him wrong more often than not. And he's really not _that_ goddamn complex. 

“We'll see about that,” she says, but her tone is lighter. 

“Bitch,” he retorts, feeling lighter, too, as he thinks about the intel. 

“See you upstairs in ten – wait, make that five minutes.” Shepard flips the omni-tool shut and meets Zaeed's gaze. Her expression has eased up, that usual dark glitter returning to her eyes again as she nods towards his bare chest. “And put on a shirt. You'll scar the crew for life.”


	11. Prometheus and Atlas

 

 

 

Shepard is still wallowing in anger after their previous mission.  
  
She doesn't have to _say_ it, it's really fucking clear from the way she pushes into the mess hall the following morning, barely taking the time to look at what sort of food she piles up on her tray, one hand and both eyes following a long list of messages on her omni-tool. Her mouth is a taut line and her teeth are clenched. Normally she’s the type of person who’s controlled even when she’s goddamn furious or pointing a machine gun to your forehead, but something about the past few days seems to have slipped under her skin.   
As she accidentally elbows Zaeed right in the middle of his chest, she finally looks up, momentarily disoriented.  
  
“Morning,” he says, taking a step to the side.  
  
“Yeah,” she nods back as though he had asked her a question.  
  
Shepard proceeds to a table where Garrus and Jacob are already sitting. Zaeed follows suit, mostly because his other option is the company of shrink Chambers who still hasn't given up the attempts of figuring out how a man who has seen so much destruction can be mentally healthy.  
  
 _Because I’m not a goddamn psychopath, bitch._   
  
He recalls yesterday's grand finale to what had turned into a fairly long run in and out of various geth-infested science facilities run by Cerberus. Shepard had got trapped in an advanced Virtual Reality created by the head scientist who, as it had turned out, had used his autistic brother in his experiments. Needless to say, Shepard had freaked the hell out when she learned the truth about it; Zaeed had watched her being closer the the edge of her self-control than he's ever seen her before and the second before she slammed her gun into Gavin Archer's face, he had been sure she would blow his brains out.

Zaeed would have cheered the death of that son of a bitch, but he's not sure it's a good sign that the commander is even considering that sort of retribution. Seems to run counter to her nature and annoying as that nature _is_ he can't deny that it's worked pretty damn well for the galaxy so far.

“ The Grissom Academy should be a good place for David Archer, Shepard.” Garrus looks up at her, mandibles twitching slightly. Ever the goddamn nurse, Zaeed thinks. For such a self-proclaimed badass, the turian sure spends a lot of time reassuring his commander. Hero-worship doesn't even begin to describe it. “You did the right thing.”

She nods at him, something in her face softening. “Yeah.”  
  
“You'd think statistically, at least  _some_ of the Cerberus facilities would have to be less horrific.”

“ No, then they wouldn't be Cerberus facilities,” Shepard retorts sarcastically. She's finally closed her terminal and dug into her food. “My favourite thing about them is all this secrecy bullshit. You can't track any operations or do any complex data analysis. Makes for  _such_ ethical projects.”

In a fluid organisation like Cerberus, Zaeed knows, information is in a constant state of flux, built on systematic misinformation and dead ends. He's tried enough times to get something useful from their networks to know that it's goddamn hopeless.  
  
“Yeah, and here I thought Citadel security was a sordid history,” Garrus says, drawing a smile from Shepard.   
  
“Not mutually exclusive,” she points out over a spoonful of this morning's porridge.  
  
“True. But it gives you some perspective.”  
  
Perspective. Zaeed nearly laughs. Shepard aside, most of these people have no goddamn clue about perspective. When you've founded a merc company intended to be a Skyllian verge protection racket that your bastard partner gradually morphs into a fucking terrorist cell, only to stab you in the back, kill everyone who had been loyal to you and piss all over your name in every corner of the galaxy, then you bloody well learn about _perspective_.  
  
But that, Zeed thinks as he finished his meal, is hardly the kind of war story he will share.

 

 

  
  
.  
.

.  
.

  
  


They return to the Citadel to check out a lead that apparently is meant to take them to the traitor who had shot a hole in the turian's renegade group of fighters on Omega. It's been brewing for some time, even Zaeed who doesn't exactly seek out his company has snapped up his growing eagerness to get going.  
  
The tracking of the traitor is much like any other tracking on a place like the Citadel – tiresome and full of brainless mercs standing in their way. At least Zaeed can pride himself on not ever having been desperate enough to take whatever shitty goddamn job they had offered him, not even back when he had no reputation and no credits. He's always looked for some dignity in his work, never wanted to degrade himself chasing after just about anyone like a mindless dog. He may have shit for honour but he's not a goddamn krogan. After a while when he could pick and choose, he had selected only the best kind of bounties, the hardest missions, the ones generating the best cash and the toughest reputation. That’s the only way you get by as a bounty hunter. By being considered utterly ruthless and brutally efficient, by having your name associated with bloodbaths and success – so you exaggerate every cruel killing you’ve ever done and keep your mouth shut about the rest. No one needs to know that while you blew up a whole fucking colony out in the outskirts of the Terminus system, the only ones left in the residential area were a bunch of slavers and some turian scouts.  
  
That’s why he’s hardly impressed, let alone _scared_ , of anyone at this point in his life. Half of it is empty bullshit. At the end of the day, even the ones with the reputation of being heartless monsters will go down on their knees and beg for their lives or the lives of their family if they have to.

The racketeer who goes under the name of Fade is probably one of them, too, Zaeed thinks as Shepard and her turian sidekick kills two bodyguards to get a whiny little volus talking. If you're stupid enough to have goddamn _volus_ covering for you, you deserve to have your alias blown to pieces.

“Harkin.” Shepard's voice is dark, the word coming off more as a vicious snarl.  
  
Zaeed glances at her. “Friend of yours?”  
  
“Ex-C-Sec officer,” Garrus fills him in in her place. “C-Sec threw him out as soon as they could without risking diplomatic turmoil.”  
  
“Anderson calls him a disgrace to our species,” Shepard adds. “I'm inclined to agree.”

Zaeed is utterly unsurprised to find Blue Suns mercs involved in the mission that stretches out over a couple of hours and leads them to the badly supervised Factory districts. Vido sure has branched out and drops his recruits all over the galaxy these days. Luckily for the galaxy, he usually recruits morons and cowards.  
  
That same afternoon, Zaeed watches as Shepard lets her turian friend chase down and kneecap Harkin, which seems fitting. The pleasure on the turian's face is visible even to Zaeed who normally has a hard time figuring out what the hell the bird-people are thinking – or even telling them apart.  
  
But then, a moment later, Zaeed also watches as Garrus joins the others among the crew who doesn't get a chance at revenge. Because of course Shepard sees through his deluded façades and speeches about wanting justice. Like Zaeed, Shepard can spot a lust for revenge when she sees one and in the end she sabotages what would have been a clean sniper shot to end a pathetic old guy's misery.  
  
There's a moment when Zaeed is convinced the turian is going to shoot anyway. It's a goddamn unfair choice she gives him, given their history, but Shepard's a hardass if there ever was one. She'd probably fire right through her closest friend if enough was at stake and the fact that she still stands there, blocking the laser sights with her body makes something tighten in his throat.  
  
When they walk away from the scene he gives her a long, searching glance; she meets his gaze but says nothing during the short trek back to the cab.  
  
No one says much inside the cab either.  
  
“We don't kick people who are already down,” Shepard points out, levelly.  
  
 _We don't?_

“We're not the law,” she clarifies and Zaeed looks at Garrus who stares at the darkness outside the car.  
  
  
. 

.

.

.

 

 

“You've domesticated the turian,” Zaeed remarks when they stand together just outside the Zakera Café. The turian in question has sulked off on his own, probably licking his wounds in private. Zaeed can't blame him.  
  
Shepard's eyes narrow slightly. “Meaning?”  
  
“Turians show no goddamn quarter for an enemy. They're not wired that way.”  
  
“Garrus is a friend,” she says and there's a stubborn jut to her jaw. “He's not immune to advice.”  
  
 _Advice_ , Zaeed thinks, wondering briefly if she had considered letting Vido run away a valuable lesson, too. He decides to brush off the irritation.   
  
“What was the point in sparing Sidonis?”  
  
She shrugs, looking at the menu screen next to them. “What had been the point in killing him?”  
 _  
Apart from the sweet goddamn release?_ he thinks but doesn't say. Instead he joins her in studying the menu, feeling the ever-present hunger stir in him as it usually does around proper human-friendly food.  
  
“So it's some kind of personal quest for you then, getting between your crew and their targets?”  
  
“Still bitter about Vido?” She makes it sound like a schoolboy grudge over some child game, her tone infuriatingly light-hearted even though he knows she's come to understand that whatever the hell Zaeed can be accused of, nursing unmotivated grudges isn't usually a fault of his.  
  
“Still bitter about Cerberus?” he retorts and the sharpness in his voice makes her look at him in silence for a moment.  
  
“Fair enough.” She tilts her head in a little nod. It's the closest she'll ever come to admit that he has a point - he recognises the gesture well by now.  
  
Around them, visitors order food and chat about their recent purchases, their plans for the rest of the cycle and their jobs. Zaeed hears their voices as a low murmur that he barely registers but it strikes him as goddamn weird how they can all walk around here, ignorant of everything going on in the galaxy. He's never been one to moralise about how the hell people spend their time but now, as they're all standing on the verge of some kind of intergalactic mass-slaughter waiting to happen, he thinks it should be expected of everyone to be at least half-aware of it.  
  
 _You're turning into Saint Shepard._  
  
She stands with her hip against the wall, a curved line of solid steel and full-blown heroism and Zaeed follows it with his gaze, searching for those invisible cracks he knows have to be there somewhere. It's like a quest in its own right, looking for them, and he has no idea why he finds it so goddamn enticing.   
  
“What the hell is wrong with revenge then?” he asks.  
  
“I don't believe in it, not as a principle.” It's a completely serious answer, he can tell from the way her voice is calm, _contained_. Whether or not it's completely _honest_ is another matter. She rakes a hand through her sweat-damp hair and smooths it back with her palm.  
  
“What about revenge as goddamn _therapy_ , Shepard?”  
  
“I'm not a therapist.”  
  
“ _Right_ ,” Zaeed scoffs and she gives him an irritated frown.

“Look, I'm no saint. I'm definitely not religious. But if I stop believing in giving people the benefit of a doubt – in showing them mercy, I'd be no better than the kind of scum I chase across the galaxy.”

“Why do you have to be _better_ than them? Isn't it enough that you beat the hell out of them every time?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Right,” he says again, scratching the back of his head. “Forgot that the Alliance always need the moral high ground.”  
  
“It's not moral high ground to want a bigger purpose than 'ooh, shiny explosion'. It's common sense.”  
  
He smirks. “If you say so.”  
  
And he might give her hell about it, but the unspoken thoughts in his mind aren't half as dismissive as his words. Shepard is, without a doubt, the most honourable person he can think of and the one with the firmest set of ideals. Her idealism isn’t stupid, at least not all that often.   
  
It's tainted and tarnished enough, _real_ enough, to cut into his cynicism. Unlike most similar crap he is subjected to on a regular basis, he actually - reluctantly - buys into Shepard's. She's thought it through, churned the ideals and spat out her own versions of them instead of just repeating what she's been taught by some sanctimonious jackass. It doesn't weaken her, either - if anything it makes her indomitable because she actually believes that despite all the goddamn bullshit she encounters, there's a point in doing good deeds. There's strength in that, a hard, unshakeable strength that would make most people piss themselves if they really understood its mechanics as well as Zaeed does. There's no _stopping_ Shepard. The universe fucks her over and she gets back on her feet with her gun loaded to fight – without losing her faith in all those larger principles that Zaeed has been told ought to matter.  
  
He's still unsure whether it makes her crazy or really goddamn impressive, but he's willing to go with the latter.

“I have it in me, you know.” She says it quietly, almost as though she doesn't intend for him to hear. Her face is turned away, her eyes following the endless boring cycle of commercials on one of the screens around them. _Exciting opportunities await Alliance citizens like you on the outworld colonies._ She's the one closest to the ads so it's her identification that generates the bullshit. _Shepard, you've recently been dead. Don't you deserve the quality and distinction of a traditional asari burial robe?_ His own ads mostly babble about guns, ships and inane omni-tool shooting games which he can't remember ever having played. When she looks at him again, Zaeed spots a wry little smile playing on her lips. “Well, everyone in my position has it in them. I know that. But for most officers it's something they're trained to do. Make the tough calls. Sacrifice people. With my background... let's just say I didn't have to train for it. You know how it is back on Earth. It's eat or be eaten.”

“Shepard-”  
  
She shows no sign of having heard his attempt to interrupt, just continues; her eyes glitter with a particular kind of glow, something stony in her expression.   
  
“I know you don't care about anyone's opinion but your own, Zaeed. But I do. I  _have_ to. I'm not a damn space pirate - I'm a Systems Alliance officer. The first human Spectre. I have my own command. Hell, people got court-martialled for standing up for me after Saren. Some of them joined Cerberus because of me.” She shakes her head. “So I work my ass off every single day to be a person they can follow. Sometimes I slip. And it makes me terrified. And when I'm terrified I work even harder. So yeah, you could say I have a personal agenda.”  
  
It's a confession so damn intimate that he doesn't really know what to do with it and for a split second he feels out of his depth in a way he hasn't for decades.   
  
“Well,” he says eventually. “If it's any consolation, you're the most infuriatingly  _decent_ human being I've met in my goddamn life.”

That seems to hit the right spot, somewhere beneath the composure and armour, because Shepard flashes him a quick grin that looks like her usual one, devilish and confident. He finds that he's damn pleased to see it return.

“Anyway. I figure I owe you for that cigar,” she says, nodding towards the menu again. “What are you having?”  
  
  
  
.

.

.

.  
  
  
  
After a brief date with her shower in the captain’s quarters, Shepard leaves the Normandy again that evening. Due to some new leads concerning Thane’s son and a couple of other minor issues on her extensive to-do list, they’ll remain docked at Citadel station for at least another few days and she’s ordered most of the crew to take some R&R while she goes to visit an old friend.  
  
The Citadel bustles with life and it’s like a breath of fresh air to stand in the middle of it all; she walks slowly through the parks and recreational areas outside the nicer parts of the station, tries to pretend that she’s one of the casual visitors here.  
  
Anderson's private quarters are far gaudier and less minimalist than she'd have expected. Shepard supposes it's not a personal choice, though she can spot a few paintings and decorative objects that look like stuff her old CO would purchase for himself.  
  
She adjusts herself comfortably in one of the large leather couches that make up a majority of Anderson's lounge.  
  
“We've received a lot of intel from you recently,” he says, walking up to her and handing her a bourbon in a small, sturdy-looking glass. “Admiral Hackett has found it very useful.”  
  
“Good,” she says. “That was the point.”  
  
Anderson takes a seat beside her, sipping his drink.  
  
“You all right, Shepard? All things considered?”  
  
“All things considered,” she says reflexively because that's what she does.  
  
He doesn’t look like he believes her but lets any remaining questions hang unspoken between them, for which she’s grateful.  
  
Their entire history, Shepard thinks now, is framed by these kinds of talks – careful concessions, unspoken words and neutral, military-coated language that might be lacking information for civilians but that manage to convey more than enough for the two of them. When Anderson had first swept her up in a wave of training, examination, evaluation and expectations she hadn’t been one for talking about herself. The less said the better, back on Earth. You could easily slip away if nobody could tie you to anything -anchor you to your sordid past or your bleak future. In the military, she had found, she was expected to communicate. It wasn’t half as tricky as she had expected and now that she has mastered military-speak as a second language, she even takes great comfort in it.  
  
In the military as a whole, if she’s honest with herself.

It’s hard to be lonely when you’re surrounded by people in the exact same position, striving towards the exact same thing, controlled – and confined – by the same clumsy rules. So you get around them together, cover for each other and have each other’s backs.

Everything’s different now. For both of them, she suspects as she lets her gaze wander across Anderson’s quarters. For as long as Shepard’s known him, there has been no trace of family in his life and she can’t find any now either. Of course, she hadn’t exactly expected Citadel life to have had any significant impact on his personal life but even so, it’s a change from most high-ranking individuals’ offices.  
  
Anderson’s walls are as empty as her own as far as family is concerned.  
  
“Have you got anyone here who's not a complete red-taped idiot?” Shepard asks, realising she really hopes the answer is yes. She doesn't want him to be lonely and there's a little sting of guilt at the memory of the Citadel, years ago, when she had vouched for him as humanity's representative. _This is not how I had planned on spending my twilight years._  
  
Anderson smiles. “I do. Not many, but enough. What about you, Shepard?”  
  
She thinks about the Normandy as she swirls her drink around, thinks about how strange certain things are aboard her new ship that is nothing like the old one. When she had first read the dossiers, fresh out of surgery with scars still aching, she had missed her previous crew with an intensity that nearly overwhelmed her. A few cycles later parts of it have joined her and she finds that it's the unexpected free agents who work for profit, not principle, that she's taken the greatest comfort in. Kasumi. _Zaeed_. The amoral thief and the ruthless bounty hunter, far from Alliance material and so carefully detached from every galaxy-spanning context that they ought to be like aliens to her.  
  
“I've got people too,” she says. “Some of them more unexpected than others. Cerberus thinks outside the box, I’ll give them that.”  
  
“Well, you've always had a knack for making alliances.” Anderson says, reminding her of that evaluation that has followed her through her career and had been the main reason the Council had approached her, once upon a time. It feels like it happened a decade ago, to another person.  
  
She smiles. “Excellent inter-personal skills.”  
  
It remains a puzzle to her, hearing that. She has not yet completely shed the image of herself as the trouble-maker from the streets - all tangled nerves and misdirected anger - though these days it's a well-kept secret.  
  
“I stand by that, Shepard. You see through people. It's one of the things that make you a damn good leader.”  
  
Once, it had been Anderson and Hackett who had seen through her. Anderson who vouched for her, every time, despite initial mistakes and a hell of a lot of conflicts and Hackett - higher up in the food-chain with the gravitas to be taken seriously no matter what - who vouched for Anderson and praised his judgement in turn. If everything else falls to pieces, Shepard knows, she would still remain loyal to both of them for that alone.  
  
She shakes her head now, still smiling. “I didn't come here to get my ego stroked.”  
  
Anderson shrugs. “Everyone needs that once in a while. Having your own command is a thankless job.”

_Especially Cerberus command_ , she thinks but refrains from pointing it out. Instead she empties her glass, shifting her position in the couch that is so soft and comfortable it runs the risk of almost swallowing her. The Normandy has no such luxury, not even the Cerberus version of it.

“I should go.”  
  
She looks at Anderson who nods, and puts down his empty glass on the table and looks at her, intently, as though he’s trying to figure something out. It’s not unusual; she’s experienced it a lot over the past cycles. Being observed, judged: the long process of checking her against previous records to see it they match, if she still _fits_.   
  
“You're always welcome back, Shepard.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
Even as she leaves the room, she imagines she can feel Anderson's gaze on her; she doesn't turn around to see if she's right.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	12. Islands and shores

  
  
She's having nightmares again.  
  
As a kid she'd have them in periods, much like other kids would catch colds or the flu – periods of crap nights and equally bad days to follow. Her dreams back then had been spiraling around her mother's death: dragged-out, painful, a textbook example of the kind of radiation-induced disease that just  _happened_  to regularly occur in the poorest parts of town among the factory workers and cleaners. Official story had always been that there had been no illegal levels of anything in Alto Inc's factories in Vancouver. Which, of course, was bullshit. One of Shepard's happiest memories is the day when she, through sheer luck and an entirely unrelated N7 mission in the area, could expose the CEO and bring down his filthy company.   
  
After that, the nightmares had disappeared.  
  
Now they're back with a vengeance and she's hardly surprised.  
  
Now her dreaming mind have long abandoned the parent she barely remembers and her nights are full of dying, of failing, of waking up in a world where the Reapers are still there and the war is lost; waking up to a world that is one big dire consequence of her mistakes and her hubris. A hubris shaking the very foundations of everything. Hitting the Omega 4-relay – who the hell  _does_  that anyway?  
  
Shepard sighs and sits up in the bed, brushing slightly damp hair out of her face with the back of her hand. After a moment of hesitation she shuffles to her terminal thinking she might as well do some work instead of wallowing in her childish fears.  
  
The digital numbers glare at her: it's still in the middle of the night according to the Earth rotation they've put Normandy on. By now most of the crew is used to it, too, or at least no less accustomed to it than to any other rotation. It usually takes a while to adapt the first time you're forced to but once you've done it to your system at some point you get somewhat immune to any side-effects in the foreseeable future. She taps her fingers on the ship monitor on her desk, receiving footage from all over the Normandy - these mildly intrusive vids that she objects to but somehow finds reassuring all the same. It's a Cerberus operation after all, regardless of the fact that she's leading it and she'd never be stupid enough to completely trust anything coming from the Illusive Man. When she's debating with herself over the high-level supervision, she keeps telling her inner saint that she doesn't  _pry_ , she never stays long enough in a frame to get any juicy bits and she's not exactly flying under the radar herself.  
  
 _At least I'm not the only one being monitored. Big Brother is watching us all._  
  
It's a quiet, calm night. Even the crew quarters show her nothing but lights off and occupied beds. Perhaps the recent R&R has satiated them, she thinks to herself. At least that's a fairly reassuring thought in the middle of all of this.   
  
Leaning back in her chair, she processes the vids from the main battery: from inside Chakwas's clinic where the doctor is still up, probably researching something; Mordin is asleep in his quarters, as is Garrus and Wrex while Jacob has a night shift down in the command center so she knows he's buried in work or a chat with Kelly Chambers who sleeps badly for someone who chases everyone else around preaching the importance of maintaining a healthy sleep/work ratio even during extraordinary circumstances.   
  
Shepard isn't particularly surprised to find Zaeed awake as she reaches the lower sections of Normandy in her questionable walk-through of her ship. She pauses the camera rotation there, almost by instinct. Zaeed stands by the desk in his quarters, flipping through something on his omni-tool while smoking one of his cigars and she finds herself immersed by how different he looks when nobody's watching him. The way his entire posture is changed, the sharp edges somehow mitigated by solitude.

And that's the thing about him. That's what she's having more and more trouble overlooking.

That he's infinitely more clever, sensible and – most surprisingly -  _decent_  than his mercenary persona lets on and she guesses that he's willing to kill just about anyone to keep this cover intact, which sort of greys out the 'decent' bit in his resume. But strip him of his macho bravado, his penchant for killing for cash and he'd be just like any other grizzled, ruthless marine who's seen a bit too much over the years. Those who get the job done and deny themselves the luxury of dwelling on  _how_. The Alliance ranks are full of people like Zaeed though he'd never admit it.

She's not sure why it matters, only that it does.

And she's even less sure why it feels reassuring that this half-crazy mercenary is sharing her fucked-up sleeping patterns – if anything it ought to stress her out that trigger-happy people under her command are getting far too little rest – but there's nonetheless a jolt of satisfaction in her chest at the mere sight of him, awake at this hour.

_I need my head checked once this mission is done._

 

 

*

  
  
  
At the Citadel, everything's the same.  
  
Zaeed leans against one of the walls and listens to Citadel NewsNet that tells him that the official investigations of missing human colonies are unsupported by the Council – as though it can be counted as goddamn  _news_ that the spineless bastards in this shiny place don't support much that happens outside the radius of their own arses.  
  
He scratches the back of his head, stifling a bored yawn.  
  
They're here to fix some issue the drell has dragged with him to this mission and Shepard seems to be as annoyed with it as Zaeed is even though she does a better job at quelling the snide remarks. When they poke and prod on the surface of it, they end up facing a sniveling goddamn duct rat who's allegedly got some information about Drell Jr – yet another son unceremoniously ditched by daddy dearest, Zaeed gathers. Surprise of the century.  
  
“So you know this kid?” Shepard asks, nodding towards the brat going by the name of Mouse. He seems harmless enough, not holding up too well under questioning or subtle threats from the Commander.  
  
“I used to employ the poorest Citadel kids as spies and tools,” the drell admits. “Mouse was among them.”  
  
“ _Classy_ ,” Zaeed remarks, mostly to himself.  
  
Shepard takes a few steps and the drell follows, leaving Zaeed at a distance for a moment. He can tell that she's being served some sort of explanation or excuse but he can't hear what it is and he doesn't pretend to care.  
  
”You abandoned your son,” Zaeed hears the Commander snap eventually, her voice a harsh blend of impatience and irritation. “We’re here to deal with it. This isn't the time to brood - and don’t expect me to pity you.”

The metaphysical bullshit that seems to practically pour out of the drell is certainly enough to make anyone want to strangle him with his own intestines, but Shepard usually keeps a stiff upper lip no matter what crap people whine about. Apparently this is a goddamn obvious exception to that rule. It pleases him to see that she has her limits after all. Makes her seem human.

The drell simply nods at her and Shepard walks away from the conversation, checking her omni-tool; her jaw is a hard line, her teeth seem to be pressed together in some sort of quiet resentment.

He gets it.  
  
It's too godddamn easy  _not_  to have kids for him to harbor any kind of sympathy for those who do have them only to dump them somewhere along the way. The streets back on Earth are littered with brats nobody wants – they're the base for every pirate band or smuggler syndicate or mercenary company, for that matter. Whatever your reasons, nothing motivates shoving your offspring into the arms of someone like Vido or hell, someone like Zaeed even if Zaeed actually hasn't made a habit of exploiting the slum kids if he can help it. It's not just sloppy, it's goddamn inexcusable.  
  
Shepard mutters something in his general direction and though he can't hear what, it's clear it's intended for him and not the drell.  
  
Yes, Zaeed  _gets_  it and the familiarity of it all is becoming frustrating, he thinks to himself. He's been around this bloody woman for too long, grown attached to her horrible fucking mission and her worthless crew. It makes him uneasy to think about it, to consider the possible consequences of such alignments in times like these. Hell,  _any_  alignment in times like these is like asking for a laser beam in your gut.  
  
“We're going to get some help from our friend Bailey down in C-Sec again.” Shepard suddenly stands right beside him and Zaeed turns his head to catch a grim little smile on her face. She always smiles that way when she's made up her mind about something, worked out a plan. “You coming?”

“Yeah,” Zaeed nods, figuring the alternatives are even less thrilling. They usually are.

Later, as the drell goes to make up to his offspring for years of neglect, the rest of the crew have supper at the Dark Star Lounge. Shepard had invited Bailey along too but he had declined the offer and Zaeed is not going to dwell on the fact that he had felt a particular kind of pleasure hearing that. Judging by his actions, the C-Sec captain is a clever bastard who gets the job done because he knows when to intervene and when to fuck off and Zaeed has always respected that sort. 

Shepard, too, apparently.  
  
He downs the rest of his drink, looking out over the half-empty place.

Apart from a few turian soldiers on what sounds like shore leave and a few scattered krogan mercs, the Normandy crew makes up most of the bar's population tonight. Zaeed is seated next to the Commander who has just finished going over the drell mission with her turian nursemaid.

“You let that other kid continue selling that Shepard VI?” Garrus asks, his voice betraying his surprise. 

Shepard shrugs, digging into the last few bites of her meal.

“Yeah, what the hell,” she mutters. “It doesn't matter to me anyway. If it gives him creds enough to get a decent meal and some booze, that's all good I suppose.”  
  
“What does the Shepard VI even  _do_?” Kasumi asks, looking amused at the various scenarios that undoubtedly play in that tricky little brain of hers.  
  
“Don't know yet.”  
  
“Yet?”  
  
“I got a copy,” Shepard admits.  
  
Kasumi laughs quietly. “That could be  _weird_.”  
  
Zaeed snorts. The little thief has got a goddamn filthy mind. He likes it, and even Shepard looks amused, though she glares at her companion for good measure and reaches for her drink with a determined expression.  
  
After food and a couple more drinks, the crew scatter into the boring Citadel night - most of them, he assumes, wouldn't want any entertainment anyway. They're perfectly content with this life: duty, orders and catching a few laughs in between. For someone who claims she's been recruiting unusual fighters, Shepard sure has found bloody conventional soldier material.  


Zaeed lingers for a moment in the bar, ordering a second shot of that turian brew he's only had once before in his life - on some remote former colony now only serving as a ship graveyard out in the Tikkun system where he had been intent on drinking himself to sleep after a goddamn horrific mission. He had lost fifteen mercs, one damn fine ship and a hell of a lot of credits that day and the booze, shitty as it had turned out to be, was a comfort.

It tastes mildly better here in this clean bloody place where even the dancers look tidied up and the floor is polished. It's been a while since he lost even half as much as well, that might have something to do with it.

On his way back to the Normandy, he spots Shepard near the transit hub where she leans against the railing meant to prevent people from falling down into the open space below them, if the signs nearby are anything to go by. He keeps hearing the Citadel has high suicide rates despite the preventive measures. No surprise there.

Tonight the commander definitely looks like the solitary creature she is. A whole separate universe. And he thinks that, he says to himself, without the slightest bit of sentimentality attached. It's just a fact that in this entire vast, shitty galaxy he can't imagine there's anyone even remotely like her. He's pretty sure she can't either, it shows in the way she interacts with the rest of them – there's a gap there, one she leaves open as though she can't muster up the energy required to even  _try_.

He stops beside her, leans his back against the railing and folds his arms across his chest. Shepard doesn't look up.

"We're off to the Serpent Nebula next. Bekenstein, to be more precise." She closes her omni-tool but continues to look at it, as though she's got stuck there somewhere in between all the signs and numbers. "Then hopefully we can start making progress with the Omega 4-relay."

"No more family matters to delve into?" Zaeed asks, not entirely able to empty his tone of his irritated sarcasm at the idea of coddling yet another crew member through some personal goddamn trauma. At least this Citadel business has been nothing compared to Soldier Boy's paternal crisis out in the jungle. Then again, that nasty mission had ended with Shepard waving goodbye to Taylor Senior as they left him behind in the mess he had created himself and Zaeed had found it oddly gratifying to watch, if nothing else because their ever-righteous commander had seemed so satisfied with her own idea of torture. Even Alliance heroes have their blind spots.

Now Shepard gives him a sideway glance, raising an eyebrow. "Not unless you have some abandoned kid or forlorn wife you've dropped off along the way?"

“Not really the type, Shepard.”  
  
She shrugs, smiling a little at him. “I've learned never to trust any kind of  _type_. Either way, if you've got something unfinished, now would be a great time to tell me.”

She's really planning for their deaths, Zaeed thinks, shifting position beside her. If anyone knows these kinds of plans it's him, though he has never scurried around fixing other people's issues before a suicide run. 

_That's one of the many reasons you got shot in the head while I got a hero's funeral_ , Shepard teases in his mind.  
  
"I didn't get it at first," she says after they've stood there silent together for a long time. "My first missions with the Alliance and then the N7 tours. I didn't understand the whole process of wrapping things up. Everyone else was making vids and setting up calls and I just didn't  _get_  it."

“Yeah,” Zaeed says because he doesn't really know what sort of answer she expects from him. 

“People need to feel they're coming back to something,” she continues. “You know?”  
  
He nods.  
  
So many mercs he's hired over the years, so many bounty hunters he's worked with and the same goes for all of them – they want to get out alive. Whatever crap odds they're up against they want some parts of their daft brains to be convinced they'll stroll out of the mission rich and still breathing. That's what makes them different. The two of them standing here, not quite  _getting_  it.   
  
Sure, Zaeed wants to see the huge Cerberus payment afterwards as much as the next bloke and he's pretty sure Shepard much prefers living over the prospect of being violated by some disgusting alien race but she's not going to get her goddamn knickers in a twist over it.

Of course the twisted laws of chance and the inherit foulness of the galaxy make sure people like them survive, too, while the rest go to waste. Like goddamn cockroaches they reappear after their suicide runs and impossible missions, returning home to no one.

“Tell you what,” he says, pulling out his own omni-tool to find the image of the old Irish whiskey he stores there the way normal people would store pics of their loved ones – for motivation and reminders. “When we reappear from the Omega 4-relay as big goddamn heroes, I'll split this one with you.”

Her eyebrows arch as she takes in the picture, then she grins.

“Looks expensive.”  
  
He gives a laugh at the understatement. “Only bottle left in the galaxy.”  
  
“You obviously got way too much credits to spare, Zaeed.”  
  
“Can't a man have a hobby?”  
  
“What, booze?” She still looks at the bottle; he wonders if she knows exactly how much he had spent on that one. Probably not, he decides - she's not exactly a connoisseur, more the type to get herself pissed on whatever goddamn liquid that happens to be within reach on the rare occasion that she lets her Alliance soldier guard down enough to admit her own urges. “Not sure getting drunk counts as a hobby.”  
  
“That bottle is older than you, Shepard. Show some goddamn respect.”

Shepard smiles, running a hand through her hair and tilting her head to look at the few souls still coming and going via the rapid transit system. About half of them give her curious glances back; he wonders what it's like being recognised everywhere you go, how often it makes her want to bash someone's head in. Probably not half as often as he would want to, had he been in her situation. Moving freely through the galaxy is one of the true benefits of being your own goddamn employer and the agent of nobody in particular.

“So that's what you're coming back to?” Shepard's expression is still half-amused, her tone teasing, but he can spot the edges of seriousness in the actual question. “A bottle of whiskey.”

“Half a bottle of whiskey,” he corrects her, holding her gaze for a while.

She glances sideways at him, shifting her weight slowly from one foot to another and leaning forward again, elbows on the rails in front of them. Even in armour, he can spot the display of muscles along her lines, her broad back and strong arms making her look massive despite her rather lanky frame. Trick of the goddamn trade, he knows. No commanding officer can get away with looking anything but lethal in every bloody way possible; they all have their little delusions.

“Right.” For a moment she pretends to be thinking it over, like he hadn't just offered her a bait she'd swallow any goddamn day of the week. “Fine, I'm in.”  
  
“Of course you are.”  
  
At that Shepard shakes her head, giving him the impression for a split second that she's about to say something else or throw him an insult but instead she merely pushes herself upright and walks past him in the direction of the Normandy hangar.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	13. Broke, blind and bedlam

"I expect you to gear up," Shepard announces, half-way inside Zaeed's quarters. He closes his omni-tool and gets to his feet, wondering if she's given up knocking altogether now. Not that she's ever been big on it. "If we run into trouble, you'll be part of our back-up team."

He knows 'our' refers to Shepard herself and Kasumi, and that unless the goddamn collectors have sat up base on Bekenstein, the odds of them needing any help are slim to none.

As she pushes through the entrance Zaeed's unable to hold back a surprised grunt – the commander is wearing a skin-tight, black leather number that seems so out of character he immediately knows it's part of the thief's plan.

Noticing his glances, Shepard shrugs dismissively.

"If you say 'nice rack', I'll kneecap you, Zaeed."

She stops at her usual spot in his quarters, though this time she doesn't jump up to sit on his desk. He rather wishes she would but refrains from pointing it out.

"Cerberus doesn't pay me enough to offer you sweet lies about that," he says instead.

She gives him an icy glare but he can spot the smile behind her grimace, hidden in that particular tug of her mouth.

They've certainly dolled her up for the occasion. He prefers her in armour but then again he's always been one for comfortable, commanding women rather than the kind you meet in bars. He may like his guns old-fashioned but he prefers his ladies as goddamn modern as they come. While dancers or prostitutes or any other woman taught by professionals how to make a man squirm are capable of putting on a decent enough show, merc ladies and soldiers don't fuss about their looks, they're often damn clever, can hold their own in a fight, have fun stories to swap and they fuck like there's no tomorrow. There's not much more he can ask for.

Still, it's difficult to make someone as powerful as Shepard unattractive and he has to admit he follows the outlines of her body in that silly dress when she moves around.

"So what's the situation?" he asks as she settles, leaning against the desk.

"Formal party for the galaxy's richest human scumbags." Her tone is calm and somewhat detached; she is focused on matters far beyond these little detours, Zaeed can tell. There's been a noticeable shift in her ever since they approached a possible end to all of of this – like any self-righteous leader with a goddamn Jesus complex, she's gearing up to take the fall, turning herself into pure, solid steel to be able to endure it. You don't see much of that behaviour among mercs. "We'll blend right in, focus on the objective and get the hell out with the graybox intact."

"Simple enough."

"That's the plan."

Zaeed figures, but doesn't point out, that the thief likely has some tricky little twist to her plan. It goes without saying.

"Anyway," Shepard continues, her eyes set on the exit now. "Be ready to lend us a hand."

He nods. "I'm always ready."

"Excellent." She sounds distant again; he eases the kink out of his neck – he's suffering from a bloody awful bed in this quarter though he'd rather swallow a truckload of plasma than bunk up with the rest of the Cerberus crew and be subjected to their vapid gossip every hour of the day – as he watches her walk out. Before she's entirely gone, he calls for her again.

"Hey, Shepard?"

"Yes?" She turns around, stopping dead in her tracks for a second.

"Great arse."

She laughs, with slightly less venom that he would have expected. "Fuck off."

.

.  
.

Because of the nature of this operation, Zaeed finds out when he has brought his gun and helmet down to the shuttle bay, they're not just going to watch the boring mission vids afterwards. No, this time they're watching the mission live through the usual channel that the little thief has tampered with to allow them better access.

Apparently it's a goddamn movie night according to the crew who look ridiculously excited. These needy bastards should get a life, Zaeed concludes to himself as he joins them. Then again, shouldn't they all?

"I wish I'd brought snacks." Joker's disembodied voice is cheerful, sounding through the room via intercom.

"Hey," Taylor protests. "You're talking about your CO."

"I know. And when my CO is wearing  _that_ , I reserve the right to notice it."

"Now that you have, flight lieutenant, you won't mind being quiet, do you." Lawson's tone is made of ice.

There's a brief silence; Zaeed's pretty certain he can hear the kid clear his throat. "No, ma'am."

The Cerberus doll squeezes into the crowd that stands in front of the screen and Zaeed wonders if she still has her goddamn knickers in a twist because Shepard won't trust her with details and in-depth mission analysis. He can't believe anyone would be thick enough to expect someone like Jane bloody Shepard to trust an organisation like Cerberus.  _She did want me to have a control chip,_  Shepard reminds him in his head.

_Can't really blame her, can you?_

Now the screens give them the visual experience of Shepard and Kasumi arriving at the party – Kasumi is cloaked and only her traced omni-tool give away her position. Shepard, on the other hand, is visible enough for both of them. She's got good taste, the thief, no arguing there.

"Pull out the charm on this one, Shep," she says.

"Don't I always?"

"No."

The Commander mutters something inaudible before marching off to present herself to the doorman. Zaeed is already bored. Infiltrating a party, what a lame sodding idea. It's the oldest trick in the book and he finds it somewhat surprising that the best thief in the galaxy can't pull off a better plan than a trojan goddamn horse, even if this particular horse  _is_  pretty clever, not to mention  _shiny_. He supposes all rich people are the same – the more it glitters, the better even if it's a disturbingly large staue of an ugly-ass turian. Besides, he can't pretend to be much better than Shepard when it comes to being in disguise or playing charades. Vido, the smug son of a bitch, had always claimed Zaeed lacked the wits and skill to be undercover.

He thinks about Vido as the commander manoeuvres herself in there among the rich and the famous, hiding the skinny gutter kid behind black leather and one hell of an attitude and unearthing something he'd much rather avoid thinking about.

In that dress, in this surrounding and in his eyes, she's momentarily just a scrawny thing from the wrong parts of town and images from his youth flash before his eyes. Women in poverty, doing what women in poverty have always done and will always do, no matter how many contact wars they fight in. Those girls he knew from school, girls who had barely gone through puberty, flashing their pathetic little bodies in every street corner, offering services they must have known next to goddamn nothing about.

The moment passes, quickly, and he can no longer see anything but the starship commander about to pull off the most incredible mission in human history but the notion remains in his head, disturbing him.

"Kasumi should have taught her to walk in those heels," Lawson says right on cue, frowning. She sounds more concerned than he would have given her credit for. Perhaps she's programmed to have emotions after all. "That's not a believable cover."

He's inclined to agree though he's not about to bloody admit that. Instead he clenches his jaw and focuses on the screen again, pushing the thoughts of the past away.

It's a pretty decent show as far as watching someone else's mission goes. For a couple of hours they watch Shepard and Kasumi blow up hordes of Eclipse mercs, escape Hock's high-security vault and finish it all out on his private landing pad where Kasumi pulls off a crazy acrobatic stunt, jumping on top of Hock's goddamn gunship to take out its shields while Shepard remains groundside, firing at it with her favourite shotgun.

_Good riddance, you bastard._

Zaeed has run into Hock's associates on several occasions – lost a few damn good soldiers and a lot of credits to him, too – and he's never been up to any goddamn good whatsoever.

When the ship finally goes down in a blaze of fire and explosives, the connection to the Normandy is momentarily interrupted and Lawson, without even blinking, is half-way into the process of launching the backup team before the screen flickers and the landing platform appears again.

"Commander?" Joker's question hangs unanswered for a while but they can all watch as someone suddenly leaps up from behind a still-intact crate.

"Joker, bring the shuttle in now," it says because of course the person emerging is Shepard, unharmed.

Garrus shakes his head in what seems to be relief and it's a reaction mirrored in many of the others, as well. It has been an unusual sort of display, watching their leader on an almost-solo mission like this, without having her back, so it's probably only natural that it had merited an unusual sort of worry.

Not that Zaeed had ever doubted Shepard's ability to land on her goddamn feet like a cat or trade in one of her nine lives if that should fail, but then he's hardly the worrying kind.

Grabbing a few ration bars from a supply box, he leaves the shuttle bay, somewhat disappointed in the neat outcome. He'd have appreciated a few violent encounters with Hock's men today.

.

* * *

.

The hot water feels soothing against her sore muscles and she stands in the shower much longer than necessary, closing her eyes and focusing on nothing besides the warmth.

Tonight had been exhausting, in every possible way. She had kept Gianna Parasini at the back of her mind, as she walked into that crowd. The crisp clean fashion in which the skilled agent adopts any cover, wears any mask. Shepard on the other hand has never been able to pride herself on being good at any form of disguise and she certainly doesn't tend to blend in so the thought of Parasini had sent little twinges of comfort and steadiness through the evening. Her own preferred way of dealing with Hock's type would have required less formal wear and more direct confrontation at gunpoint which is how this operation eventually ended up, too. Kasumi had hinted, of course, that the death toll would have been considerably smaller had Shepard not been involved.

_They didn't even offer a stealth crash course in N-school, did they, Shep?_

Perhaps the fate of the neural implant they had put themselves on the line for would have been different, too, without Shepard's involvement. She's got no doubts about Kasumi wanting to keep that stash of her past, regardless of the consequences. Not everyone needs to calculate the damn impact of their every decision – in fact, she reminds herself, very few do. Needless to say,  _she's_  not among the lucky ones. Once they were safe inside their shuttle Shepard had disconnected the Normandy, knowing somehow that whatever the conversation would reveal it would need to stay between the two of them.

As it had turned out – through the mental filter Shepard had put up in order not to pry too much into scenes that quickly turned very personal - the information inside the graybox were of the compromising sort. If made public it would have potential to do some serious damage to the Alliance and she hadn't needed to hear much beyond that.

The graybox had also contained the last remains of a relationship that had been cut short by the same kind of mess that usually cuts things short in this galaxy. The lovely cocktail of greed, war and violence that no one seems to really escape.

She had told Kasumi what she presumed she wanted to hear, said  _I understand_  and  _I know this is hard_  and had tried to remember the last time she had felt that way about something, about  _someone,_ knowing perfectly well that there's no such thing or person in her past. If she's honest with herself what comes closest is probably the Alliance, which is a pretty damn sad resume.

But there it is, the inevitable disconnect that comes with the position; the distance to most other marines after her faster than light career and the N7 training. All the little ways in which she doesn't fit into the star map of a billion dots that seem to bind everyone else to each other. Shepard turns off the shower with an inward grimace.

The party might be over, but she sure could use a drink.

Though, she tells herself, stepping out of the shower and reaching for a towel, there's no time for that now. If there's ever such a time again – and she's not counting on it – she has half a bottle of Irish whiskey waiting for her. She smirks to herself at the thought and at the absurd half-promise preceding it.

Maybe she really ought to follow Aria's advice and find a nice young man to keep her warm. They say change is good, after all.

As she puts on a pair of pants – the ones closest to her, as usual – and a clean tank top, she recalls Kasumi's stray remark about wearing dresses more often. Not very likely to happen, Goto. While Shepard's younger self might have cared if given the opportunity, her adult persona has never seen the point of fashion beyond its practical use – in her opinion certain trends are rather clever, others are just weird and require the physique of an asari and the wits of an inanimate object to pull off.

When she wants to impress someone she has always had other means and lately she finds that not even those old tricks are needed any more. She's becoming less normal by the minute and it momentarily makes her want to pick up that silly dress tossed on the bathroom floor and strut around in it like she might have done once, back on Earth.

If nothing else it would be a fast way to undermine her own authority, she thinks to herself as she takes the elevator down to the mess, realising that for all her rebelliousness she thinks like a proper Alliance marine. Stand up straight and follow protocol. It's always done her a lot of good.

"Commander."

She nods at the two engineers – whose names elude her - that are slumped at a table down in the mess hall. They're the only ones there and one of them looks a bit uncomfortable at Shepard's presence so she aims for the coffee machine without preamble. A woman on a mission, wasting no time on her servicemen.

Then, in the elevator down to the lower deck she leans back against the wall with her mug, feeling her shoulders sink with every sip.

She's heading down to see Zaeed to pick his brain about the Shadow Broker, among other things, and the need for more caffeine stirs at the mere thought of it. As she downs the remains in her mug she fires up her omni-tool to double-check the messages she's exchanged with Liara on the subject – extremely brief, and written in what could more or less be referred to as codes they all add up to the same thing: Liara is in over her head and needs some assistance. Even the Illusive Man had offered to help Shepard with that, which is pretty ominous, though she supposes he's got something to gain from it. It would have been impossible to keep him out of the loop anyway, what with the intensive tracking of her messages and intel – even with the small tweaks and improvements Kasumi has put Shepard's communication devices through, she assumes that she's constantly being watched. It's starting to wear her down but she comforts herself by entertaining a long-winded and elaborate fantasy about how it's soon going to be over and she will find some way to tell the Illusive Man to fuck off and then march off into the sunset. Or at the very least into some other galaxy-shattering war that will be fought on her own terms.

_A girl can dream, eh?_

Zaeed is smoking by the window in his quarters, glancing at her over his shoulder as she enters. She makes a mental note to herself to check with EDI- and Kasumi - if he's managed to turn off more protocols than their non-smoking one.

"Fun party, Shepard?"

"Oh you know, same old."

He nods and looks away again, taking deep drags on his cigarette.

If she hadn't been a soldier in need of a well-performing body, Shepard would take up smoking in a heartbeat. It's something about the smell that appeals to her, especially like this when it slowly dissolves into the air, the smoke swirling upwards like thin clouds.

"Have you worked for the Shadow Broker?" she asks then, deciding to go her usual no-bullshit, no-delays route with Zaeed. It's been going well so far, laid a reasonably good groundwork for their strange friendship. He's not exactly a master of small talk, unless you count his gory tales of how he's travelled across the galaxy, blowing things up as qualified small talk.

Zaeed turns around and stubs out his cigarette on the metal surface of the desk.

"Probably."

"Yeah, I'm referring to direct contact. Orders from the boss himself. That sort of thing."

"You thinking of switching careers?" He's giving her that arrogant glance that she's learned to interpret as something much deeper than indifference. There are many ways of showing interest and she's fairly certain this is one of Zaeed's. "No, Shepard. I haven't been hired by the Shadow Broker. Might have done the bastard favours though, I don't much care who's pulling the strings higher up the chain."

As she debriefs him on the current status of the entanglement between Liara and the mysterious information broker, he leans against the desk, listening as he lights another cigarette.

"Even brokers gonna die if we don't stop the Collectors," he remarks and the absurdity is almost making her laugh. To be reminded of her priorities by Zaeed goddamn Massani of all people – she might as well retire to some groundside farm tomorrow, growing plants and hunting varren until old age claims her.

But it's that effect this weird hangout has on her. In here, in between the long-winded war stories and the bounty hunter exaggerations Shepard can spill out some of her concerns without risking the morale of her soldiers or her own hard-earned reputation. She even closes down her omni-tool down here which is saying a lot since she's known for sleeping with at least one constantly active uplink not to miss anything.

And because she wants to prolong that tiny vacuum in her otherwise solid existence of duties, she accepts a cigarette when Zaeed offers one and then they stand there, smoking and watching the galaxy outside.

They don't speak for a long time.

In some ways this reminds her of Vila Militar where the N-recruits had quickly formed small groups, like shields against the rough training and the unrelenting lessons of leadership and battle strategy. Of course, back then she had operated outside all those little fractions of marines but that hadn't prevented her from seeing through their behaviour or understanding the need for what they were doing. She had felt their urgency because it had been her own; she had grasped their friendships and bonds and formed a few of her own, though nothing that could compare, especially not as the ranks thinned out and the training intensified.

Since Anderson tore her away from the hell on the streets, Shepard had spent all her time and more energy than she even possessed reinventing herself and building her own personal armour. It had been a struggle mirroring the fast, relentless Alliance academy. She just couldn't  _risk_  it.

These days the risk seems smaller or perhaps, she thinks as she, too, stubs out a cigarette against smooth metal, it's simply the need that is greater.

She can sense that Zaeed is observing her even before she looks up.

"You found that in Hock's vault?" Zaeed fastens his gaze on her new gun that she's brought with her.

"I did. Two of them, actually."

Shepard had felt a bit like receiving a really nice gift when she spotted the legendary Kassa fabrications model 12 Locust -  _the gun that killed two presidents_  – and she's itching to try it out.

Now Zaeed watches her with his brows knit together as she fondles the weapon and realises that she'll never be able to tease him about his unhealthy relationship with Jessie after this.

"You plan on using the other one as a security blanket?"

"Something like that." Shepard hesitates a little and swipes a hand over her hair that's still wet and smells of disinfectants and soap. It ignites a memory in her, sudden and unexpected. "I got you this, though."

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out two spare parts that should fit even his discontinued assault rifle model – if the Locust looks antique, it's nothing compared to these little bits of history resting in her palms now. Hock had kept an insane amount of weaponry and anything vaguely related to it in his vault and while Kasumi had worked on releasing the box, Shepard had spent that time gathering whatever resource she could spot. Ever since Eden Prime broke them of all their habits and forged new ones in the aftermath, scanning and collecting has become a deeply-rooted impulse in her. Whether it's possible clues to the Collector puzzle or traces of rare metals or alien DNA, she figures most things can be put to use.

Over the past few years, she's gotten used to handing out some of these treasures to her subordinates as well. It's second nature to her by now to spread the wealth among her team, nothing particularly strange about it.

Zaeed, however, eyes her with what can only be described as suspicion. "What do you want, Shepard?"

"Nothing."

He looks down at the parts, then up again, meeting her gaze. "Then why the hell are you bringing me these?"

 _Because I thought of you._ What a ridiculous fucking thing to even  _think_ , she realises the moment the words form themselves in her mind. She shrugs, aiming for faked casualness; for the second time today she feels disarmed,  _naked_ and that just won't do.

"What's the point in blowing up perfectly good salvage?" She shakes her head, as though it will shake off the strange tension between them. It doesn't. "No need to thank me, by the way."

And he doesn't, but then again, she had never expected him to.


	14. Detours and delays

Shepard yawns into her coffee and opens a fifth tab on her private terminal.

In her head she tries to draw up a fair and smooth plan for this current cycle, squeezing as much as possible into every trip and avoiding pointless detours. It's usually impossible to prioritize like that with an overarching task like the one they have now but she's sure they can do a bit better. Shepard's known for her efficiency, after all. The same does not go for the Cerberus team sent to investigate the derelict Reaper that is thought to give them some Reaper IFF and be the key to taking the fight against the Collectors a step further. And whatever the Illusive Man knows about  _that_ , he's not communicating a single word.

There's a new message from Admiral Hackett, though, informing her of a human colony gone missing. He sends her these little scraps of information every once in a while, likely trying to make her feel part of the Alliance even with him shelving her entire team, refusing to intervene in her current situation or offering her anything beyond this curt communication.

_For all intents and purposes you are currently leading a terrorist cell, Commander_ , the admiral reminds her in her head.

She scans his intel briefly and closes it down again, reaching for her third ration bar this morning. Being annoyed really brings out her hunger, as does the lack of sleep she's been suffering from lately. As though the biotic fire inside her body isn't enough to fuel her appetite.

When she has finished her coffee, there's a dull sound from her terminal announcing new mail. This one doesn't have the familiar Systems Alliance ID and she has to open it to reveal the sender. While she would be more careful with non-tracked correspondence on an Alliance vessel, she trusts Cerberus to have tampered with anything sent to her already so the potential tech or security damage is already done before it reaches her.

This one is a brief message, a few scattered letters across her screen carrying more weight than any full mission report the Illusive Man sends her way.

_Shepard,_

_I need your help._

Liara.

"Joker," she says into her inter-com, "Set course for Illium."

.

.

Liara's different, Shepard thinks to herself, not for the first time.

It had been a lingering thought at the back of her mind ever since she stepped into this room for the first time, several cycles ago. Two years had passed then and they had both been confused by it, though it wasn't merely confusion in Liara's gaze as it locked with Shepard's own across countless of missions, secrets and unspoken truths.

There's something else, there, too and Shepard's going to find out  _what_.

"I thought you said we were done with the detours?" Zaeed gives her a glance over the desk in the empty office above the trading floor.

Shepard sits by the computer, scanning through it for potentially useful local intel. There is nothing new at this point, just the same old mercs and agents and dirty trades for spice, information and slaves.

"Didn't know you were so eager to dive into the Omega 4-relay," she retorts.

Zaeed shrugs, moving closer to a shelf near the window, examining a statue that appears to depict an asari warrior from another century judging by the archaic weapons. Odd trinket, though perhaps not for a scholar of Liara's kind. She often forgets that her old team mate has that kind of background, finds it difficult to fathom the massive life-span of the asari in general and the fact that before Normandy and the war with the geth, Liara had already lead a completely different existence.

But of course they all had.

"Right." She gets to her feet and nods towards Kasumi who's inspecting the pile of books on another shelf. Both paperbacks and electronic ones line up beside each other, probably containing a wide array of subjects. "I told Liara we'd be at her apartment in an hour. Better get going."

Liara's apartment is a surprise, not only because of the crime scene setting that greets them.

It's a clean, proper place very far from every apartment Shepard has ever rented, both pre- and post-Alliance training. The rooms are tidy, the furniture looks expensive, but it all gives a hollow vibe,  _impersonal_ , as though nobody actually lives in it – and if Liara works as much and as desperately hard as Shepard suspects, that makes perfect sense.

_I have debts to repay_. Liara's words spin through her head, settling uncomfortably in her chest along with the threads of worry and suspicion. The vague, initial kind of suspicion, too, aimed at everything and everyone. Someone's been after Liara and for all Shepard knows, it could be just about anyone in the known galaxy. Not that she's unused to it: the same goes for most people she works with.

"She didn't seem like herself last time we spoke," Shepard pokes through a nearly empty desk where only a few research tablets and a photo from what looks like a university reside.

Zaeed shrugs. "She's an asari, they're always pulling some goddamn scheme."

"Not Liara."

"Yeah, right. If it makes you sleep better, Shepard."

Ignoring him, she pushes forward, her mind set on finding some clues to the disappearance. The Liara she knows – or thinks she knows, at least – would have found some way of attempting contact even during the worst kinds of distress.

In a corner of the kitchen, they stumble into a weapons cache sneakily covered by cupboards and enough ammunition to kill a whole planet of mercs. Someone's certainly not relying entirely on biotics.

In some parts of Shepard's mind Liara is still the breathless scientist who stumbled her way through debriefings and conversations and seemed destined to say the wrong things at the worst of times. Clearly that image needs to be renewed.

"You find anything useful?" Tela Vasir looks at them from downstairs where she stands, arms folded, occasionally arguing into her ear-piece.

"Not yet."

"I don't like her," Zaeed mutters.

A couple of years ago Shepard might have argued that regardless of her attitude Vasir had been chosen by the Council to represent the best of her species. She had initially felt that small rush of awe meeting Nihlus for the first time, a feeling influenced by years of training where you'd idolize pretty much everyone who's climbed high enough. These days, however, she's giving Zaeed a small nod in agreement. Funny how a little war can change one's once so  _very_  sunny disposition, she thinks with an inward smirk.

"We'll deal with her once we've found Liara."

"Girl's obsessed with you," Zaeed remarks, inspecting a piece of a badly battered N7 armour that Shepard has no idea how Liara got her hands on in the first place. Not that she's going to investigate that any further at the moment – the less they discuss the crash site and everything related to it, the better, as far as she's concerned.

Shepard stops in front of the holo on the bedside table; it flickers slowly between two images - one of the Normandy and one of a dig site that looks very similar to the one where Shepard had first encountered Liara.  _Clever_. She smiles.

"Girl  _did_  leave me a message," she says triumphantly. "Come on, help me check every Prothean artefact in here."

"Nice trick." Kasumi makes an impressed sound. "Hey, Shep, you ever hang out with someone who's not a genius in some way?"

"Apart from Zaeed, no I can't say that I do."

She shoots him a glance to see if he's picked up on her teasing the way she's begun to count on him to do, or if it's still a barrier between them since last night. Trust Zaeed to be fine with just about anything except being handed some damn salvage, or well: being given something without ulterior motives or sneaky plans.  _That wasn't really all there was to it_ , her inner voice reminds her, though she has no intention of listening to it right now.

But when Zaeed looks at her she can spot the faintest outline of a smile and it lands in her gut like a tiny, soft blow.

.

.

Liara's different.

The memories of her back on the original Normandy are so ill-matched with the woman beside her now that they almost seem manufactured.

It's not just the growing up part or the elimination of her awkwardness; there's a dark edge to her now, a swirl of grey to wash out the black-and-white of someone young or inexperienced enough. But there's harshness there too, something that doesn't particularly suit her.

"I'm  _fine_  by the way, thanks for asking." Shepard makes her voice deliberately sharp as they get up from the ground outside the hotel where they've spent a good hour fighting. The air around them still smells of explosives and blood.

This scene, this  _moment_ , falls heavy between them. At the trade centre there had been a similar moment, one where Shepard had been falling out of a window and still not even recovered her breath before Liara had set off again. For a fraction of a second she had looked back, straight into Shepard's eyes and almost said something but just as the words were about to emerge, she had hurled herself off to chase after Vasir. Nothing wrong with that – every good marine would have the same priorities – mission comes first and Shepard had clearly been alive, but it's not  _Liara;_  in Shepard's experience it requires a pragmatic cruelty that doesn't fit.

Liara had been out of sight before Shepard had even finished that thought and instead it had been Zaeed's hand on her arm down at the plaza and his voice, low and under his breath, asking her if she was okay.

Now Liara keeps her gaze fastened on the screen of her omni-tool, suppressing any sentiment that may hide in her eyes . "You're always fine, Shepard."

.  
.

* * *

The Shadow Broker's ship is a fucking nightmare from a strategic point of view.

Zaeed ducks for a heavy rain of bullets and nearly trips over the damn edge to his right, hurrying back into the narrow passage where they're at least remotely safe from the lightening and the horrid bloody weather out here in the middle of nowhere. Even without the fighting they'd have a hard time just staying alive without the asari and her skills.  
 _  
Glad you brought me, bitch._

Of course, he had known Shepard would pick him to come with her and the asari long before he received her call and when the choice later had been between the thief and him, he was already halfway inside the car when she nodded towards him. Her habits have become settled by now, having tested them all against each other for a long time, mixing up her ground teams and creating crazy goddamn combinations. The drell and Jack, for example. Or Jack and Grunt, a duo of portable bloody mayhem. But Shepard had claimed once that all her constellations serve their purposes and Zaeed has to admit he's never met a CO who knows her subordinates better than Shepard so she's probably right.

"My shields are down," she shouts now over her shoulder, diving into cover just as another team of the Shadow Broker's agents bursts through some half-hidden opening in the ship. If Zaeed ever gets around to buying that ship he's been thinking about, he's going to make its exterior as goddamn infuriating as this one: a maze of shields, generators, traps, hatches and weird bloody angles. To piss everyone off, if nothing else. Or avoid unwanted guests.

"Hang on," Liara shouts back and releases a biotic wave aimed at the large capacitators up ahead, which causes a huge electrical mess, stir-frying a whole team of enemies. Yeah, he thinks to himself, no damsel in distress, this one.

Funny to watch the ladies in front of him fight – the asari and her powerful biotics and then Shepard who uses hers sparsely, almost as if she doesn't rely on them at all but in fact prefers her guns to get the job done. He's never met a biotic with that attitude before, most of them are all too goddamn happy to spill their superpowers everywhere, regardless of who's standing in the way. His commander is treating hers like a little side-show, something to resort to after a while or put in a supportive role on the battlefield.

It's funny too, to observe the two of them because the quarian aside it's the closest thing to friendship Zaeed's ever seen between Shepard and any of her acquaintances and shipmates. She has her crew, all wide-eyed and adoring - or needy bastards like the turian and Taylor – and even if she seems to like them well enough, there's no  _spark_  there, no fire. You're not mates unless you're willing to hit each other in the goddamn face if necessary, as far as Zaeed's concerned. These two argue like an old married couple so he figures they'd have each other's backs in any kind of emergency, too.

Then again, what the hell does he know about friendship? He had considered Vido a friend, once.

He even considers the crazy woman who's leading them across the exterior of this ship a friend, if he's going to be completely honest. Not that he plans on telling her.

Back at the hotel she had been goddamn glorious again, pulling off a show almost rivalling the one on Tuchanka in his opinion. The way she had handled the hostage situation had been impressive in a way only Shepard can be impressive and Zaeed had found himself holding his breath waiting for the asari Spectre's move when confronted with the commander's fake arrogance. Because Shepard would bloody grieve a dead hostage, he knows, and that's almost enough to make him care, too.

_Almost_.

No time to dwell on that, though. It's enough at the moment to merely stay on his feet. Zaeed figures they're going to die really soon anyway but he'd rather bring the bloody Collectors with him than get thrown off this idiotic ship like some gigantic bug.

Shepard seems to share this sentiment.

"You gonna get us inside any time soon, T'Soni?" she shouts as they attempt to hack the security field again.

"I'm  _working_  on it!"

They round a corner and are greeted by a noise that indicates more enemies approaching. "Work faster!"

"You're welcome to try for yourself, Shepard."

Zaeed is pretty damn grateful that Shepard's ego has its limits, because he wouldn't trust her tech skills to get them anywhere close to inside this vessel. Intimidation techniques and fancy speeches are useless on consoles, as fas as he knows.

"At least the Shadow Broker will go down with us if the ship blows up now," Liara says a while later, tapping into the security system after one final, successful, attempt.

"Comforting," Shepard retorts, conveniently oblivious as usual about her own well-documented history of the same kinds of comments and ideas.

Birds of a goddamn feather, these two.

Then they're inside and right in the middle of a heavy rain of bullets. Zaeed wonders if the Shadow Broker has another ship somewhere nearby with mercs ready for action at his signal, otherwise it doesn't seem strategically sound to launch every single soldier at them, draining his own resources like this. Most idiots at least  _try_  to gain some sort of advantage when dealing with people that arrive at their doorstep with Shepard's resume. Even Zaeed would plan better than that, especially if he had something to lose.

Maybe, he thinks when they eventually stand face to face with the information broker himself, you don't have to be very clever when you're the size of a goddamn thresher maw.

Zaeed pays a moderately small amount of attention to the verbal stand-off between the asari and their objective, thinking that it's better to survey the room for possible traps and exits instead. They're very bloody unlikely to get out of here without resorting to violence and he's not going to hesitate using his best explosives if he can do so without killing them all in the process.

"Thank you for bringing me Mr Massani, T'Soni," the creature says then, catching his interest for sure. "His bounty from the Blue Suns is most generous."

There's a brief moment during which Zaeed wonders if he'll have to pull a gun on Shepard and he learns during that brief moment that he wouldn't be thrilled about it - not only because she'd kick his ass. He'd actually miss her if it turns out she'd stab him in his goddamn back which is a hell of a lot more than he'd feel about most people he runs into during his travels. It's such a blatant contrast to any other context he's gotten himself into for the past twenty years and he's reminded of it again as the commander frowns.

"My crew's not for sale," she says, making an alternative sound impossible. Probably because it  _is_ , to her.

"I didn't say I'd pay for him, Shepard."

In the corner of his eye, Zaeed can see the near-invisible gesture she makes, telling him to get into cover.

Unfortunately, so does the Shadow Broker. Zaeed manages to predict the move before the beast makes it and avoids being hit, deciding he will save the explosives a little while yet, making them more of a surprise when they hit this guy. He's beginning to work up his adrenaline now, eager to jump into battle and kick this one's balls.

_You can try to capture me, you ugly son of a bitch._

That is the last thought flashing through his mind before everything goes dark.

.  
.

* * *

There's a soft hum of terminals and research stations down in the med bay; two crewmen are being examined by Chakwas in one end of the room while Zaeed is in a bed in the opposite corner. The curious array of scents – hypoallergenic air freshener, post-battle hormones and medigel – fills her up and she nods her greetings to the doctor and her patients before walking up to the bed.

Zaeed sits up straighter when he spots her and she notices he's got a nasty burn along his scarred neck. It makes the tattoos look pale, even.

"Turns out yahg scales are goddamn toxic," he mutters.

"Yeah." She rolls up her sleeve to show him a similar patch of red, infected skin, though hers is mostly healed by now thanks to the heavy presence of cybernetics at work in her system. Cerberus' little project even prevents her from  _feeling_  much pain – which makes her uncomfortable if she thinks about it too much. "I noticed."

His gaze travels over her arm, up towards her face.

"I take it we have a new Shadow Broker, then?" he says suddenly. She scratches the back of her head to buy herself a few seconds and Zaeed gives a low laugh. "Not goddamn stupid, Shepard. You killed the old one and neither you nor the asari are the type to let a galactic network go to waste."

Shepard can taste her own tiredness at the back of her tongue, acrid and stale. She feels like backing out of this annoying, ever-growing web of connections and overlapping missions, never having to worry again about intel leaking out or sensitive matters seeing the light of day. They haven't trained her for this and it had been Liara, not Shepard who took up the Shadow Broker's work without much hesitation. Liara had shown no trace of doubt – and if she had, it hadn't been present long enough for it to count – because that's not the kind of person she is now. That's the insight of the day, Shepard thinks sarcastically. That other people, too, get forged by war and its aftermath and that she can't do much to change that.

_Imagine everything I can do to help you now Shepard_ , she had said, efficiently silencing any protests, just like Shepard had guessed. It's pretty predictable, this galaxy of theirs.

"If you breathe a  _word_ -" she begins clumsily but Zaeed cuts her off and she's too tired to fight him over it.

"Relax," he says. "Not gonna gossip, Shepard. I don't really give a shit who's who as long as they pay me for my work and leave me alone."

He shifts on the bed; he doesn't seem pained but she guesses Chakwas intends to keep him overnight for observation, all the same. She hopes so, at least. It's always the stubborn ones that need medical attention the most.

"So Liara gave my body to Cerberus." She doesn't know why she tells him, really. Once, they had discussed it but it's not like she expects him to remember  _that_  or give a damn about the whys and hows of Shepard's existence. It's just one of those things that needs to be said and he happens to be around to hear it.

Zaeed looks unsurprised at her revelation. "Yeah. Seemed like the type."

"The type?"

"Sentimental. Many Asari are shit at coping with death. Disadvantage of living forever." He shrugs. "She may be a daft bitch but she acted out of loyalty."

"I don't know." When she says it she realises that she actually doesn't. Not at this point, not in this life. She finds – again and again and again - that nothing comes easily in this version of her existence that lack the edges of protocol and purpose.  _Just give me some superiors to look up to and some subordinates to keep in line._  "Whatever her reasons she didn't get a good deal. Too many strings attached."

"Would you rather be dead?" He asks it as if it's actually something to consider.

"No," she replies; the word gains weight and importance in her mouth, weird as they feel to speak in front of him. But who else would ask,  _understand_?

"Good." He tilts his head to the side to watch with gleeful interest as one of the crewmen shrieks when Chakwas finishes up a few stitches on his back. "Because I'd say it's up to you to make sure we're not all ending up mummified in one of those fucking pods."

Shepard smiles. "A vote of confidence. From  _you_."

"Yeah, don't get your goddamn knickers in a twist now, Shepard."

She shakes her head, as usual torn between amusement and a desire to whack him over the head for being out of line. Except he isn't, not according to the pretty unique set of rules they've developed for the friendship between them. Disrespectful as he may sound, she's beginning to think that Zaeed is actually one of her staunchest supporters when it comes down to it. And she's got way more uses for a loyal asshole then a smarmy traitor in her ranks.

"By the way, here's your dossier from the Shadow Broker's archive." She hands him the datapad and searches for his gaze, wanting to see his reaction. But when he looks up, his eyes are unreadable. "I took the liberty of collecting any data concerning my shipmates."

Well, and quite a lot of files tagged as Systems Alliance affairs, but that's not something she needs to share with anyone. So far she has learned that while Admiral Hackett has given strict orders against Alliance contact with Shepard, he's also swept the rising drama and interest in her current whereabouts under the metaphorical rug. Supposedly because he's a clever man who can see her important mission for what it is. And part of her hopes that it will eventually be an opening there, a way back into the only organisation that she can actually stand behind. If the admiral of the fifth fleet is half the strategist rumour has it he is, he'll find a way to welcome her back.

But first she needs to survive this.

"Interesting read?" Zaeed asks, his sharp voice breaking her train of thought. He hates secrecy. For all his faults, she has to give him credit for being upfront about every stupid stunt he pulls - the refinery on Zorya being a frustrating exception.

"I wouldn't know, Zaeed."

He grunts - half amused, half incredulous, she wagers. "Is that so?"

"There's nothing about it that interests me. I trust you."

_In all the ways that matter, anyway._ Truth is that she has browsed through both Miranda and Jacob's files already but left everyone else's privacy breaches untouched.  __  
  
"Besides," she adds over her shoulder when she's already turned on her heel. "I don't need to know how much booze you've ordered over the requisition channels or how many times you've downloaded porn from Asari Planet."

He makes a sound that Shepard has learned to interpret as laughter and it puts her in an inexplicably good mood, all things considered.

That changes, though, as soon as she approaches the exit and is held back by a silent but very efficient stare from the doctor in charge.

"Since you're already down here, Commander," Chakwas says, voice pointed and crisp, giving Shepard a look that indicates that there's no point arguing. "I'd rather not let injuries inflicted by rare and exotic species go unchecked."

Shepard stifles a sigh before she complies and walks toward the examination chair by the doctor's desk. Occasionally she vows to herself never to become the cranky kind of marine who considers medical attention an unnecessary evil and regards medics with a profound scepticism. They're an annoyance at best and a real disadvantage at worst and she's served with enough of them to be aware of her own tendencies to develop these traits. The stubborn ones, indeed.

"Whatever you need," she says, taking a seat and placing her right arm on the desk. "Blood, scans, my first-born child."

Chakwas gives a tucked-in smile at that. "Let's not overdo it, Commander."

"Just some samples then?"

"And a few readings." There's a clicking noise in Shepard's brain as the doctor starts scanning her implants there, a procedure that's always a bizarre reminder of the Lazarus project and the Illusive Man himself. "Your cybernetics are usually fine, but I'm more worried about that L3 implant of yours."

It seems the crewmen don't require any further observation because when Shepard looks in their direction they're already gone. Zaeed, on the other hand, remain. He's reading through the datapad she left him and despite having claimed she has no interest in it, she can feel a little peak of curiosity rising. He may be honest about most things but she's willing to put a lot of money on the fact that he's got his fair share of secrets and she finds that more intriguing than she really wants to admit, even to herself.

"T'Soni came by earlier," Chakwas says conversationally. "She seemed relieved."

Shepard thinks about her friend that they had saved from the Shadow Broker's ship, thinks about the colossal network that had stood abandoned for seconds, perhaps a minute before Liara had snatched all the strings and loose ends and made them hers. It's impressive and terrifying. Mortals playing gods. If any race should, she supposes it would have to be the asari.

"I helped her with an important mission," she says, thinking that Chakwas probably knows much more about it than Shepard thinks. Thinking, too, that is doesn't matter.

The doctor nods and takes a reading, writing something on her computer.

"Two years is a long time," Shepard says suddenly, averting her gaze. She had said the exact same thing after Horizon, when Chakwas had studied a strange injury on Shepard's shoulder and casually tossed words like  _old friends_  and  _Kaidan Alenko_  into the air between them. Two years is a long time, meaning  _I thought I knew him._ It's uncharacteristic for her, spilling it like this, but what Anderson once told her rings true now – the heavier the burden of command becomes, the more you need something apart from it. A neutral party, a weight to keep the balance.

"It bothers you." Chakwas voice is low and soft, reassuring in a motherly way that almost makes Shepard's chest tighten.

"Everything about this bothers me." She makes a vague, open sort of gesture that can include pretty much anything without giving away too much information. "Normandy has always been special. Hell, we mutinied together. I like to think I know the people who helped me defeat Saren."

There's a cold shadow of the past rising in her and she looks at Chakwas again, as though she's having the answer to more important things that the status of Shepard's L3.

"We do what we have to do, Commander. Or what we think we have to."

Shepard exhales, letting the answer slip into her, bit by bit.

"You shouldn't have to tell me that," she mutters. It's been so long, this mission. Such an endless stretch of time without any of those things that used to make her Alliance tours both entertaining and bearable. She's so  _tired_.

Chakwas gives her a long glance. "Why not? Because you are our immovable centre?"

They share a brief smile at that remark.

"Something like that," Shepard admits, getting to her feet again as the other woman indicates that she's done with her tests.

"Fortunately for all of us people are rarely as simple and one-dimensional as they appear, Commander." she looks out over the room and Shepard can't help but notice that her gaze lands on Zaeed; she can't help but see the sardonic smile forming on the doctor's face either. "But you have already figured that out, haven't you?"

 

 


	15. Code and protocol

Zaeed figures this might very well be the last time he sees Omega.

Not a goddamn day too soon.

He leans against the massive window outside Afterlife, thinking about how many bounties he's chased in these parts of the galaxy, how many idiots who think they can disappear among all the other lowlife. They never seem to count on the fact that criminals always backstab other criminals if the price is right, thus leaving plenty of visible traces for bounty hunters and even the damn law enforcement. No honour among thieves.

When he's been in need of a swift and convenient disappearance he's always hidden in plain sight on Illium or the Citadel. Less strings attached to his own line of work, more law to hide behind if you feel like it. Plus, he prefers places where you don't catch a disease every time you touch a surface. He likes to think it gives him some goddamn  _class_.

The reason they're here now had remained pretty vague right up until they stood in the airlock and Shepard casually found it appropriate to inform him that they were hunting down an Ardat-Yakshi. He had to do a quick search on the extranet to freshen up his memory but it goes without saying that the objective is a shitty one when Shepard keeps her mouth shut about the details until it's too late to get out of it.

"Relax, you're not the one who'll have your brain haemorrhaged," she says, sounding almost cheerful now, when they regroup outside Aria's club and wait for orders. Zaeed bets she's pretty thrilled to be facing a legendary asari creature though her better nature prevents her from saying it out loud as usual. For someone giving him such a hard time about his fondness for good stories, she has a pretty sweet collection herself. Only difference is that hers always end with everyone getting the hell out alive and live to see another day. Well,  _almost_  always, anyway.

"For the record," Kasumi interjects. "Brain haemorrhage? Not a very reassuring thing either way."

"This is why we will approach our objective carefully." Samara stands a few feet away from the rest of them and Zaeed notices that her momentum is thin today, stretched out to the point of breaking. Fretting goddamn asari are bad news even during the best of times, so he's not looking forward to learn why this one is all worked up now. Then again, at this rate he probably never  _will_  know.

"Yeah," Shepard confirms. "Garrus and Zaeed, you two will be our backup. Kasumi, you know your orders."

The thief nods, already firing up her tech tools.

Zaeed looks at the commander again. "Orders?"

"Stay in touch and act like you're on duty." The corners of her mouth curl a little. "No drama. No private adventures."

The turian gives a sound of amusement, as though Shepard had said something hilarious. "Killjoy."

Zaeed says nothing, he merely observes the commander and Samara as the two of them walk off on their own, shoulder to shoulder like some big fucking Justicar-Alliance-hybrid sent to Omega to preside over it, bringing about justice and vengeance for all. What a goddamn nightmare those two would be together, all code and protocols and no fun. Pretty damn hot to watch, though, but that's another matter entirely.

He takes a deep breath and readies himself to dive back into the pile of galactic waste that is Omega.

.

.

 _No private adventures_ , Zaeed thinks later as he crouches behind the rubble of a collapsed half-wall and curses his one good eye for tearing up in the blaze of smoke and fire unleashed around him.

Easier said than done to obey that order if you're Zaeed Massani and were previously prevented from killing the bastard who's now sending more hired guns his way than everyone else in the universe combined. Because of course the idiots firing at him here are Vido's men. He'd recognise those anywhere, no matter how much bleach they use on their tattoos or how many stupid lies they've been told to repeat. They're sloppy and arrogant, far too fucking young to be out there chasing after a seasoned merc, but Vido isn't smart like that. He may have a knack for surviving, whitewashing and for making heaps of credits but it used to be Zaeed who picked their recruits and trained them. And with good reason, too, he decides as he ducks for another missile headed his way. It hits a column five feet to his left.

All Vido sees is credits. That's why half his ranks are made up of suicidal bastards with low standards and the other half of kids barely old enough to shave. Cheap and useless. As soon as they've run out of fancy explosives, Zaeed can pick them off one by one until only one remains. One shivering little fool who's flat on the ground, arms over his head.

"P-please."

"Talk," Zaeed says as he places his boot over the boy's neck.

"M-mr Santiago."

 _Mr_   _Santiago_. Zaeed sneers to himself. He knows Vido is fond of calling himself Co-Executive Officer these days, which is pretty goddamn hilarious if you've been unfortunate enough to have met Vido. But he's always fancied acting out his personal fantasy that he's one of the big shots in the galaxy, driving around in his shiny ship and buying the finest asari consorts to pretend that he isn't just another pathetic asshole.

"I already know that, kid." He reloads his rifle and the sound of it makes the boy whimper on the ground. "Is he here on Omega?"

The kid tries to shake his head, resulting in a stifled groan as Zaeed's boot still holds him down and in place. He relents a little and the boy chokes, inhaling sharply.

"D-don't know where he is. Sent us here to get rid of some people." He inhales again. "Including you."

"Who else?" Zaeed asks, out of genuine curiosity. He's suspected for a while that Vido is up to something, though he can't say what exactly but this could be a clue.  _Show me who you want to kill and I'll tell you who you are._ Then again, this kid doesn't sit on a gold mine of information so it seems that at least Vido hasn't bragged about his plans to everybody. Who knows, maybe the idiot has grown some sense over the years. Good for him, but bad for Zaeed. As usual.

"I don't know. I'm s-sorry." There's a muffled sort of sound, as though the kid is crying and Zaeed sighs.  _Classic_  Vido recruit. "We were only given one name each. M-my team got yours."Zaeed removes his boot and kicks the boy over, so he's lying on his back instead, facing Zaeed's eyes widen, the panic in them so vivid it sends a pang of discomfort down Zaeed's spine. Pointless executions have never been a talent of his. He likes to work hard for his deaths, making each killing count because that's how he's wired his brain to fit a lifestyle of hunting – and, if he's going to be completely goddamn honest with himself, because that's how he can file away everything in his head where his morals still carry a faint trace of Alliance protocol and those Skyllian Verge protection ideals that once founded the Blue Suns. This idiot's life isn't worth the ammo. Chances are he'll die soon anyway, at least if he plans on running back to Vido and expect mercy.

"Get a goddamn move on then," he growls, before he has time to regret the decision.

"W-what?" The kid's eyes widen, his mouth slackens.

"Run, you little jackass."

 _Like the mad dog you are_ , Vido echoes in Zaeed's head as he shrugs off the whole scene and heads back up through Omega's filth and squalor to watch his commander get her brain ripped out by an Ardat-Yakshi.

.

.

He makes it back to the appointed place just in time to see Shepard hand over her firearms to Garrus and drag a hand through her hair, as though that would somehow make it look more styled than before.

Zaeed would have expected her to play dress up in her black number again for a honey trap mission like this one – nobody has said so outright yet but he knows when someone is set up as goddamn bait. The commander, however, is wearing a much more casual outfit this time and, knowing her, has probably banned Kasumi from making her fashion choices ever again. It shows. In her jeans and unflattering tank top she looks more like a lowlife drifter than a temptress. Unless, of course, you happen to find her sexy regardless and don't give a shit about clothes. He's not sure a demon of the goddamn night wind is sharing his personal taste in women, but they're probably about to find out.

He walks up to her to announce his presence.

"You're late," she says, without even looking in his direction.

"Got held up in traffic, Shepard."

At least he had taken the time to wash the blood off as a courtesy, he thinks, but he doesn't point that out. If she found out he had been running into hired guns she would poke and prod and want to know way too much and they'd end up discussing Vido, which would lead to another goddamn set of questions and assumptions, even a full-blown search if he's unlucky. Shepard never lets anything just  _pass_. Which why they're here in the first place.

"Right." She straightens her back and gives Samara a pointed look, obviously preparing herself. "I'm going in."

"Be careful, Shepard." The turian fidgets with her guns, looking like he's considering something. If he is, he's going to continue mulling it over in private because their commander has already headed off towards the club and the rest of them remain standing there, heavily armed and prepared as though that would make one bit of difference if they're even a second too late.

The Justicar and Garrus get lost in some boring conversation about asari culture and the differences between asari and turians. Zaeed would have to stifle a yawn if he cared enough and if the situation hasn't alerted all of his nerves, making dozing off nearly impossible.

An Ardat-Yakshi.  _Goddamn_   _asari_   _freakshow_.

He's never understood the fetish for the famous asari mind-meld; it doesn't matter how hot an alien may be, she's not prodding around in his mind unless she wants to be shot in the face. That's why porn exists, far as he's concerned. But everyone's always chasing ways to get high and forget their worthless existence and then they whine about being taken advantage of, turning themselves into victims, quarian style.

Of course, most humans who jerk off to the idea of fucking an asari lack the guts to act out their fantasy so they can conveniently stay in their weird little fantasy world forever. At least Zaeed has the balls to try it. Sure, Eira had fucked with his mind and ratted him out but he doesn't blame anyone else for that and he has some really great memories from their time together, which is more than he can say about just about every other relationship in his life.

There's a sudden noise coming from Afterlife's VIP entrance and Zaeed is pulled out of his thoughts rather abruptly when the turian and the asari both draw their weapons on cue; as he curls his hand around a concussion grenade, the guards throw a drell outside. A pissed, completely unrelated goddamn  _drell_.

"Dammit," Garrus mutters.

Zaeed says nothing, merely exhales loudly and notices that Samara is glancing at him.

"This bothers you." It's not a question and the edges of surprise around her words makes it abundantly clear to whom the statement is directed. Zaeed frowns, grinding his teeth over all of his silent replies:

_Like hell it does._

_So what?_

_None of your goddamn business._

The turian, however, unintentionally saves his ass by being his usual saintly self.

"Of course it does," he says sharply. "The commander is in there unarmed, face to face with an Ardat-Yakshi. Shepard's a great biotic for a human but she's got nothing on an asari."

But Samara watches Zaeed in silence and it's clear that she hadn't missed a beat in the previous scene or its implications. He folds his arms across his chest and stares out the side window where this dirty sewer of a station spreads out in all its filth and glory.

Goddamn asari and their goddamn minds.

.

.  
.

Shepard rarely reflects on how biotic energy hurts when it attacks you, but now she winces a little and rubs her right elbow that still tingles from the fight in Morinth's apartment. It had been more of a clash, really, between two biotics so powerful that it's almost ridiculous. On occasion she had practised with Kaidan back on the real Normandy and while their fighting could get really intense, they would both look like rookies in comparison.

She's down in the cargo hold after a visit to Samara's quarters and her head feels like it's about to explode and fall off her shoulders. Frayed edges and a sore throbbing ache and everything in between covered in the increasing stress and uncertainty that comes with their Reaper chase. Her bed really ought to have been the logical next step after wrapping up the mission with the Justicar, but somehow it had not been. She's running short of logic these days.

"So how was your date with the asari?" Zaeed drawls, a playful smirk playing on his lips. There's something else there, too, something that doesn't let itself be interpreted as easily but she's too tired for it tonight and she knows from experience that he won't open up any further so it's best if she merely lets it remain unexplored.

"Great," she says instead, settling on his desk in a move that seems so weirdly familiar by now. "I don't call it a date unless someone dies horrifically by the end of it."

He shrugs. "Well, better her than you."

"Agreed."

She looks at the asteroid belt outside the ship, then closes her eyes for a second.

While the situation had been taxing because of the acute danger and the possibility of an hand-to-hand

biotic fight which she would have lost rather epically, Shepard had found the encounter simpler than expected. At least initially – she's good at reading people and Morinth had proved just as predictable and clichéd as Shepard had thought she would be, no more eloquent than your average youth with a violent streak. She had swallowed every scrap of bullshit she had been served and that, in turn, had made Shepard feel confident.

Things became more complicated once they were back at Morinth's place and the conversation split up into two – one face to face and the other one, urgent and unsettling, taking place inside Shepard's head.

 _You're like me_ , Morinth had whispered at the back of her mind and Shepard still shudders at the memory but even more so at the feelings it provoked. She might have speculated beforehand that the asari would appeal to her victim's desire for unity, her urge to be a part of something bigger but all that had swirled around in her own consciousness as Morinth invaded it had been a choking, overwhelming sense of loneliness. The Ardat-Yakshi is an outcast in the galaxy, a stranger to everybody and everything, floating around in space without attachments to anything beyond impersonal concepts like the hunt, the thrill, the violence.

And Shepard had felt, right there and then, that they were the same creature. The power in that thought still frightens her, still jars at the edges of her mind, unresolved and angry. It's like the vaster the universe gets for them, the more its limits expand, the more they need to stick together. Not as species – she's never felt much emotional connection to humanity as a whole - but as sentient beings, as  _kin_.

 _I know who you are, Shepard,_ Morinth had urged and sounded so much like another asari, a different one with a different purpose but similar ways of finding her way inside the fabric of thoughts and sensations. But Sha'ira had wanted to strengthen and soothe whereas Morinth had only sought destruction and hopelessness.

Shepard blinks, brushing away the last remains of the encounter as Zaeed clears his throat. He's moved closer, observes her as though there's some kind of evaluation coming up. With him, she realises, you never know.

The scent of him suddenly hits her – metal, oil, soap, sweat,  _skin_. Warm, human skin that would be solid and dry under her fingers and taste of life, like nothing else on this hollow ship. That's one thing that remains consistent no matter how far away they travel, how many light-years they put behind their past and their present: the touch of another body, the rhythm of another beating heart.  _Kin_ , she thinks and the feral possessiveness that colours that thought is anything but pretty but there it is, left bare because her exhaustion is too big for any kind of momentum.

He has an injury and as she lets herself fall outside of her own limits she notices it in whole new way, almost  _feels_  it in her own body.

"When did you get hurt?"

She's stretched out her hand to touch the large patch of badly applied medigel and bandages on his arm before she's even realised what she's doing and when the badly controlled instinct and its implications reaches her brain, it's too late to have it undone. Zaeed gives her a long, unreadable glance.

"Had a little fight in the Kenzo district."

Shepard is about to ask what the hell he was doing down there in the first place, but realises that she really doesn't care either way. The answer, if she knows this man at all, would probably be " _browsing"_  anyway, which is what everyone does on Omega. Browsing for illegal mods, for guns, ammo, tech and biotic enhancements that won't ever be sold anywhere else. Hell, Shepard has found a couple of new things there herself, and that's just from today's visit.

"Old friends?" she asks instead because she  _does_  care about that. Probably more than she should and in all the wrong ways.

"Yeah." His tone is clipped and she knows it's the last she'll hear of it, at least today. When enough time has passed for it to make a good story she will probably never hear the end of it.

Assuming, of course, that they are both left standing and still on speaking terms when this mission is history.

"It was her kid, wasn't it?" Zaeed asks, making it sound as though it's coming out of nowhere when it really doesn't. Today's mission isn't the kind that fades away in a heartbeat.

Shepard inhales, looking down at the table where her fingers drum casually against the metal, then back up at Zaeed. At times it seems like he will never cease to surprise her with his observations and insights – other days he still presents himself as the thickest, most deluded idiot she's ever run into – and that has begun to reflect on her idea of him, her verdict.

There's a grain of light in his eyes sometimes, visible from certain angles; there's a shade there of a person within a person. She isn't sure she'll ever properly find him or if he even exists much any more, but she still keeps searching,  _mesmerized_  in a strange way.

"Yeah," she admits.

They're both silent for a long while. Samara hunting her daughter across the galaxy is one of those things that merit few words and lots of silence. One of the few upsides to this version of the Normandy is that its crew is made up of individuals who need very little explanation to understand that sometimes their missions are painful beyond belief, beyond  _talking_.

Zaeed is definitely a prime example of that, she thinks, glancing at him. You don't become the most famous human bounty hunter without some hard-earned knowledge.

"Want a drink?" he asks suddenly, as though they aren't hanging out in an increasingly filthy cargo hold but an apartment somewhere where Shepard is an invited guest.

"Sure."

Watching him move around and shuffle a couple of small containers to reach another container full of various bottles brings a smile to her face. Someone told her, way back when she did her initial training, that before space travel was common humans would speculate about it endlessly, imagining a life among the stars. One of the main questions was always: what would you bring to space, if you could only bring five things.

She's fairly sure that one thing on Zaeed's list would be booze. These days, she's inclined to feel the same way.

"Not the famous Irish whiskey, I take it?"

"No." He looks at her over his shoulder before he turns back to his task which appears to be trying to find two mugs to drink from in the mess of his personal belongings. "First you need to get your ass back through the Omega 4-relay, Shepard. Told you that bottle is older than you are, I'm not gonna waste it."

"Right." She leans back against the wall behind her, crossing her legs. As he turns around with the drinks, she can see his gaze travelling up her body; it's a move as unmasked as her own a moment ago and it sends a jolt of excitement along her spine.

He likes this. Whatever battlefield flirting that has been going on between them, whatever it has morphed into lately, it's clear that he likes it. He likes this and  _she_  likes it, she likes it enough to be unable to hide it because fuck, he's offering a good spot of distraction and a fair game and she's always been fond of those.

Zaeed doesn't ask if he's out of line because he doesn't  _care_  if he's out of line. If she cares he knows she will let him know it, loud and clear. Hands clean, all cards on the table, no fuss. Yes means yes and no means no and strange as it may seem - fuck, does it  _ever_  - it's the most honest thing she's had in forever. It intrigues her to a point where she regrets being so stuck behind her regs, even on a rogue cruiser far from Alliance protocol, though she suspects her limits are part of the chase for him, part of the fun. He smirks, as though he's read her mind.

"A deal's a deal,"he says and hands her a plastic cup filled with what looks and smells like quarian vodka. She's still pretty good at telling different kinds of liquor apart, a skill that comes with undergoing excessive military training at various space stations. "No goddamn cheating."

"All right," she retorts, raising the cup in a toast.

.

.

"Four hundred goddamn years." He downs the last of his drink and stares at the mug in his hand.

"Yeah," she confirms needlessly. "That's a long mission."

"Dedicated bastards, the asari."

Shepard rests her head against the wall behind her; he looks at the line of her throat and jaw as she finishes the vodka, swallowing it without blinking.

"So what are you doing afterwards? When this mission ends?"

Zaeed raises an eyebrow at the question. It's not like her to stick to military bravado – at least not without a half-sneer to take the edge of the bullshit – but today seems like one of those  _days_. The fact that she's still here after a second refill of her drink tells him as much. Normally she's gone after the first and he's about to comment on it.

"You're part of my team and my team doesn't  _die_ ," she says quickly, shooting down his question before he's even phrased it. There's history there – raw and jagged, probably vaster than that maw thing he knows about – but he doesn't intend to touch it.

"I'm going to buy my own ship," he offers instead. "A real beauty of a ship. Got my eyes on her already."

"Not settling down somewhere?"

He snorts. "I may be retiring but I'm not going to buy a damn house and get a dog, if that's what you're thinking.

"Why? Afraid you'll run out of exciting things to do?" She smiles, but it's not the cocky sort of smile he's become used to, it has an outline of apprehension tonight. "Don't worry, if I remember the digits correctly, you will have enough money to buy new toys every week. Dogs, tech,  _company_..."

Zaeed snorts again, glaring half-amused, half-offended in her direction. He's already learned that this woman knows how to pull all of his triggers but it's always annoying to be reminded of it.

"I don't have to goddamn  _pay_  for it, Shepard."

"Pay for what?" she teases, drawing entirely too much pleasure from it judging by her tone. "The tech?"

If she'd been someone else, he'd have his steps calculated by now, would know his next move. He'd walk up to her, put a hand on her leg and lean in, really bloody close, explaining to her in a few words why he doesn't need to pull out the credits and she'd either laugh, punch him in the face or say  _show me_  and after another drink they'd be headed for a less crowded place. That's how it works. That's how it's always worked and how it's always going to work, no matter how many mass relays they discover, no matter which threat that's currently lurking at the outskirts of the galaxy. Except with Shepard, of course, because she doesn't fit into any pattern. He has no goddamn clue about his next move with her – doesn't even know if there's going to  _be_  a next move - and it's fucking  _intoxicating_.

He takes a step closer.

"What about you?"

"Me?" Her face shifts a little. He wonders how often she considers her own options, how often she drops everything else and just doesn't give a shit for a while. Maybe this, too, is work for her. He hasn't really abandoned the suspicion that she's merely keeping her friends close and her enemies closer and will pull out some intricate scheme by the end of this run, selling him to the highest bidder or something like that. But then her gaze seems to open up before him for a split second and he can see straight into her, far beneath her heroics and steel and he has his answer there. She leans forward, hands on her knees now as she's grappling for high ground again. She's reluctant to lose it, Zaeed knows. It's one of the things they have in common. "Oh you know, I'm aiming for shore leave and getting really fucking drunk."

He's talking about the rest of his goddamn life; she's talking about a day or two. The different perspectives seem strangely heavy tonight.

"You ever wanna do something else, Shepard?"

Hell, Zaeed's changed gear in his job so many times he can barely remember. He's ran with more companies than he can count – he's even founded one, blown it up and lived to tell the tale. Getting into a rut just isn't his  _thing_. This mission is already twice as lengthy as anything he's done before but then again, it's no ordinary mission.

"Don't know." Shepard frowns, as though she has to make a conscious effort to even consider it. "I suppose I wouldn't mind an  _extended_  shore leave. Travel some. I've always wanted to see the Supreme Seven."

She gives a laugh at her own remark. The Supreme Seven, the seven largest active volcanoes in the known space. Deadly, mythical, far-off. Of course she'd go for those if given half a chance. Zaeed holds back a grin. She's predictable as fuck about certain things.

"Tell you what, if you pull us through this goddamn mission, you deserve a decent break." He takes another step, closing the distance between them until he's leaning against the table, his hand only inches away from her own. "I'd even pay your ticket, Shepard."

"Half a bottle of whiskey  _and_  a ticket?" she retorts, tilting her head to look at him more closely. "My, my."

"Don't be such a damn tease," he mutters, without a trace of venom.

As if to prove him right, Shepard merely laughs and leaps off the table quick like a goddamn cat, heading out of the room before he can think of a next move, let alone make one.

_Coy bitch._


	16. Gods and heroes

Shepard frowns, looking up from the tablet in her hand with an annoyed expression.

"The Cerberus team that was sent to investigate the derelict Reaper has gone quiet." She slumps down at a table in the mess hall, juggling a mug of coffee and a breakfast bar along with the tablet. Zaeed has already had two of the meal bars and is now aiming for more caffeine to wash away the dull after-taste. "No trace of them since yesterday morning."

It's a busy time on this deck, even more so as they've reached what everyone believes is one of the last steps on their way into the Omega-4 relay.  _Need to reach my husband on the vid channel before departure_ , he overhears one engineer telling another as they run along the corridors here like little Cerberus lab rats.  _Just in case._  The more Zaeed thinks about it, the more he's amazed to learn how many people who actually volunteer for this kind of crap, leave their families and dogs and goddamn planetside houses and jump on a ship that's headed for destruction. With most mercs, you never get that whole side of the story; their lives are pretty straight-forward and no strings attached and occasionally some brother or cousin come to pick up the remains after an unsuccessful run but more often there's nobody there to bother with it. Seems particularly crazy to sign up for this sort of drama if you'd much rather be talking to your spouse or walking your ugly little dog in a suburb somewhere.

Then again, people are masochists. Nothing new under the sun. He leans back in his chair, watching the crew commotion and the commander who doesn't seem to notice him much at all today. Or anything beyond the report, for that matter.

Their table quickly gets full as Kasumi and Garrus join them to receive a recap from Shepard about the fate of the researchers.

"Figures," Zaeed says to her. "Isn't gory death what usually happens to Cerberus teams?"

He's seen some of the worst torture and death in his goddamn life tagging Shepard along to investigate Cerberus facilities. Places where they kept kids for experiments, places where a jerkass scientist had carved wires into his own brother's brain, places that remind him why the galaxy is such a fucking downwards spiral of shit and awakens a conviction never to work for these bastards ever again.

"I had hoped this one would give us some Reaper IFF," Shepard says.

Garrus sighs. "Haven't you learned by now that if you want something done, you have to do it yourself?"

She turns off the tablet and pushes it a few inches away, like she's marking her distance to it. "Sometimes I like to be proven wrong," she mutters, low enough that only Zaeed seems to hear her.

.

This mission – and Saint Shepard – has screwed with his brain.

All decent professionals have a smidgen of fear, otherwise they're just reckless – and not in a good way but in a way that leaves their missions unfinished and their prey on the loose. Nobody would hire him if he didn't care enough to get out of it alive. That would just be a goddamn waste of everyone's time and credits.

Usually, though, he doesn't get this fucked up sense of  _dread_  going into a dead-end or running headlong into some big damn explosion. He can't recall that he's ever felt anything that even resembles these clawing, sodding jolts of horror shooting through his system as they practically hear the kinetic barriers slam shut around them and both Jack and Shepard flinch visibly, realising what just happened.

"Damn," Shepard groans through her teeth. "Joker! EDI! What's the status?"

"Fuck," Jack says to his right. She looks furious and seems willing to kill just about anything that moves in order to get out. "This place creeps me the hell out."

"Not the way I thought I'd go," Zaeed admits, aiming his gun into the eerily quiet darkness ahead of them. During their Reaper-related missions he's learned over and over again that there are worse things than getting blown up, plenty of fates worse than dying. Not that he didn't realise this twenty goddamn years ago when Vido left him to crawl around in a puddle of his own blood and piss but the human brain can only hold so much information at the same time. Some perspectives need to be re-learned to really stick.

Once she's had her status report and made a quick change of plans, Shepard glances at him, almost offended. "Nobody's  _dying_."

For once he's pretty happy about her saviour complex. Beats being left behind in this fucking nightmare, turned into a mindless husk. As they move along the empty corridor he shudders inwardly at the smell of blood and chemicals that seems to grow stronger the further in they get. Beside him the biotic bitch cradles her weapon so hard in her hands that he can see her knuckles whiten around it.

Nothing like being trapped in a reaper corpse to make you wish for a quiet death of old age in bed, surrounded by loved ones and all that bullshit. Never mind the fact that he  _has_  no loved ones so he'd probably rot down to his bones in that imaginary bed before anyone found him. Still a nicer idea than wasting away inside a ghost ship.

As they shoot their way through myriads of husks that seem never-ending, Zaeed realises that Shepard's nobody-is-dying crap means that he, too, will go back to save any remaining crew members if the shit hits the fan and the commander decides to pull some stupid heroics. And not only because she will force him.

He's built a reputation on being the only one left standing because he's a tough son of a bitch and ever since Vido paid Zaeed's own men to hold him down and shoot him, there's a damn large portion of truth in that assessment. The trick, of course, is to surround yourself with useless bastards. If he ran around with mates he'd never be able to drop them in burning goddamn lava or watch them get blown up by batarians – at least not without being a psychopath. And even bloody Kelly Chambers had admitted that isn't the case. In his line of work you don't  _care_ , because once you do, you're fucked. That's what separates mercs from soldiers. Not the credits, not the ethics but the fact that soldiers believe their killing serves a higher purpose and they believe their fellow soldiers are important because they, too, share this belief.

It's one of the things he had hated the most about being an Alliance soldier – Zaeed has no talent for deluding himself - and now this weird sense of unity he's feeling because of these collector bastards has crawled under his skin and altered something there.  _They're not doing this shit to us_ , he thinks,  _not if I can help it._

He gives Shepard a glare even if he can't really dole out the blame on her. "Anything moves, I'm shooting first and asking later. Just so you know."

There's a faint flicker of something in her face before she replies. "Deal."

.

* * *

.

Shepard plants her palms on either side of a really depressing map showing the inside of the reaper they just escaped from; with a suppressed sigh she leans forward and shifts her weight slightly. To her right a screen that flickers omniously displays the anatomy of the geth.

The comm room has filled up with her crew in no time but right now her only focus is the matter of the geth.

That's the main topic of the the debriefing, too: the geth she had salvaged almost as an afterthought – a trophy, Zaeed had said. Jack had suggested they'd sell it. Shepard had decided on the shuttle back that she'll have Tali and EDI investigate it, hoping to keep it as far away from the Illusive Man as possible. Not that fooling him is something that's going to happen any time soon, but at least this way he won't be able to censor the possible intel it could give them.

_Not necessarily the decision I would have made_ , the Illusive Man had phrased it when he learned about it. These days that's pretty much a guarantee that she's made the right call.

Not everyone gathered around her agrees, of course. It would be weird and unwelcome if they did; she has always prided herself on welcoming opinions and point of views, keeping an open door policy at all times. But it's different on a Cerberus vessel, different without the Alliance ranks and protocols to outline everybody's thoughts. She's much less patient here, much less open to anyone's way but her own. It's not something outspoken or clearly defined; it's a low frequency in her head, a tune in her body.

She inhales slowly and lets out her breath again, still looking at the screen.

They got their IFF and a bonus trophy which makes the mission a definite success, yet all of her thoughts on the matter are heavy and dull in her head. The ship had lived. It hadn't been abandoned, nor dead, it had  _lived_  and it had taken the research team and swallowed it whole, spitting out bits and pieces. Unbidden, the mental images of those pods - a whole solar system's worth of goddamn pods from another not-quite-abandoned ship – surface and Shepard has to shake off the weight of them, the weight of this enemy.

Except she can't.

"I'm activating the geth."

Even without looking up she can feel every gaze in the room turn towards her.

"I'm done talking," she adds to close off the discussion. "EDI, can you get it ready?"

There's a brief moment of silence from the AI before it answers. "Yes, Commander."

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On every ship she has served on, Shepard has found that there's a special sort of atmosphere that follows the crew and its ups and downs.  _The ship's soul_ , a couple of sentimentally inclined officers have called it over the years and perhaps they're right. A ship adapts to its crewmen, to the ones making use of her capacity and powers.

She had felt it aboard the derelict Reaper. It hadn't been just horror vids and vivid imaginations that made them jump and twitch, it had been something  _present_  there with them, something defying all logic and rational thinking. The husks had seemed aware of it, too.

She feels it now on the Normandy as she walks through the crew deck, surrounded by formal greetings and less formal ones that all blend together. Even without scuttlebutt she can rest in the knowledge that she's not being distrusted when the engineers talk among themselves, that she's not being the butt of anybody's joke down in the mess hall or the imagined bull's eye when the lieutenants play dart and drink turian vodka.

It's her ship now. Again.

Even Miranda, Shepard thinks, would side with her if she was forced to and it's important, because they approach their mission's final stages where things tend to fall apart and get turned around. She's always liked being prepared for the worst. Last time the worst had been full-scale mutiny and given that this is Cerberus she's ready for just about anything.

Ready for just about anything seems to be the case in all areas of her life, she notes briefly as she spots Zaeed by a table, a mug of coffee in front of him. He appears to be reading something on his omni-tool and as usual his physical presence makes something click at the back of her mind, as though he's a memory of something, or an exciting promise. It's been so damn long since she felt something similar that her brain nearly refuses to recognise it.

Under different circumstances she's fairly sure she would have noted it, maybe allowed it to linger for a while – possibly acted on it if she had been drunk enough - before moving on and not looking back. Zaeed's the sort of man she's trained herself not to waste any attention on possibly because he's the sort of man she instinctively  _wants_. Once, she would have poured quite a bit of energy into not seeking him out, not feeding the vain fantasies. Now, though, she's not sure about anything besides the fact that they will head into the Omega 4-relay soon and that she will bring everyone back with her if she can. It's a blissfully one-dimensional prospect. Dealing with humans are rarely that cut-and-dry, handling feelings is a matter that involves far less protocols that can be shelved away once they're finished.

Helping herself to a cup of coffee, she sits down opposite Zaeed. A few cycles ago she would have done it without asking to prove a point – that she's the commanding officer and he's a hired gun who ought to fall in line – but these days it's not his distance in the hierarchy that causes it but a genuine knowledge that he doesn't mind her company.

Strange as it is, it's nonetheless  _true_.

He looks up from the screen. "You've activated the geth?"

"Not yet."

"Not imagining it's gonna sit well with your quarian friend, eh?"

The question alone brings up a weariness in her that she finds a bit alarming because she never used to feel this way. It's the weight of it all, she's concluded several times now since Cerberus brought her back. The heavy weight of this galaxy and its future. By now it's in her bones, a slow turbulence in her thoughts and  _always_  that sense of being responsible, of being singled out. It's not this kind of command you dream about when you train, not even among the N7-candidates or prospective Spectres will you find anyone willing to juggle all these things at the same time. Shepard's sure of that, too.

"We could use the data core, it might give us an edge."  _Or_   _not_. It's also possible that all it does is cause a rift between her and Tali – and without Tali they really don't have enough quarian goodwill to waste it on things like this. She sighs, taking a sip of her still too-hot coffee. "Hell, I'm not a diplomat. Why do I always end up as a diplomat?"

He seems to consider something – a proper insult, maybe - but then he shrugs, taking his gaze off of her. "Because you're a good man in a goddamn storm and all that bullshit, Shepard."

Many of her fellow soldiers at the Vila had been just that. Military brats raised to be a good man in a storm, protective and proud, ready to die for just about any available cause. Shepard had raised herself to survive no matter what and yet here she is while they're not. Fate's ironic that way.

She glares into her coffee. "We haven't seen the end of this storm yet."

"We will." He looks uncharacteristically sincere, which alerts something in the part of her brain that's usually resting, making her feel worried and oddly touched. It's always like that, reassuring clichés mean more when they come from the least likely source. Fond as she is of Garrus, it's not  _his_  vote of confidence she needs.

"Yeah." Shepard allows herself to rest in the odd comfort for a moment. "One way or another."

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"Admiral."

The proper way of greeting her superior officer is coded into her body, the movements so fluid she can't help them even here on a Cerberus vessel, shut out from Alliance matters entirely. Or almost entirely, at any rate.

"Commander," Hackett says and the sound of his voice brings her back to another lifetime. Another ship, another command, a different air to breathe. "I need to ask you a favour."

This is definitely not the time for favours, she thinks as she processes the words. This is the time for prying intel out of souvenir geth and preparing for a final strike against the Collectors. She doesn't say that.

"What is it?" she asks instead, wondering if he already knows that she's going to do whatever it is he's about to demand of her. He's always trusted her and she's always rewarded him by leaving him no room to think his trust has been misplaced. This is the thing about being a gutter kid suddenly dressed up in military gear: you're completely unused to anyone expecting anything from you besides trouble. It can make you willing to walk through fire for the first one to give you the benefit of a doubt.

"One of our deep cover operatives has been arrested and held on terrorism charges, Commander. She's being kept in a batarian prison on Aratoht."

Straight to the point as usual. She leans against her desk, observing him closely as he explains a bit further what the mission involves – solo mission, discretion, under the radar, the usual stuff when Hackett wants to involve her in something.

"What was she investigating in batarian space?"

A pause, brief as a heartbeat. "The rumour of a Reaper artefact."

"I thought the Alliance didn't believe in he existence of the Reapers." Time, death and countless of missions between then and now haven't really erased her frustration, she notices.

"You know better than that, Commander." Hackett's tone is neutral, his face unmoved.  _The man of steel_ , he's called behind his back. Fatherly and fair, but hard as a block of Noverian ice when duty demands it.  _Unflinching_. "Official position is one thing, but when operatives such as Dr Kenson or yourself say there's proof, then there's proof as far as I'm concerned."

The backdrop seems to shift a little, the usual screen colours altering themselves as though there's a slight disturbance on the line. Cerberus sneaking in, she thinks. Then again, if Hackett had needed full discretion he wouldn't have taken this risk in the first place.

Unless, of course, the situation is really dire and he sees no other option.

She squares her shoulders, trying to shake off the feeling of unease. "What sort of proof are we talking about here?"

He's quiet for a moment.

"Proof that the Reapers are going to invade," he admits eventually, his gaze locked with Shepard's.

Naturally the Alliance would need this to convince the rest of the Council, Shepard thinks darkly and scratches the back of her head, smoothing down her hair. And sending Alliance operatives would alert the batarians, starting a full-scale conflict which is damn well the last thing they need right now. Her team would come with her, she knows as much, but a team is too dangerous, too visible.

"So you need  _me_ , sir," she sums it up for him.

Admiral Hackett nods.

While her feelings for Anderson have grown into some sort of pseudo-intimacy resembling what she imagines one feels for a relative, her respect for Hackett has always blocked her from feeling the same kind of sentiments. Hackett is dress blues and  _yes sir;_ he's a man who's demanding an impressive amount of respect both in person and through comm links.

And Shepard trusts him. This is what always hits her when she stands before him.

If she's a good man in a storm, then Admiral Hackett of the Fifth fleet is a good  _legion_  of men in a storm and the only harbour where she can stop to rest for a moment. There are the usual echoes of a soldier's discipline and willingness to obey at play there too, but the heart of it is simple enough: she'd follow him anywhere because Anderson aside, he's the only one who could make her  _believe_.

"Fine." She gives a curt nod, already preparing the mission in her head and sorting through her arsenal of explanations for Miranda and Jacob who will be left in charge as Shepard sneaks off. "I'll head there immediately."

"I'll upload the coordinates. Hackett out."

When the screen goes dark, Shepard sits down by her desk, turning on her computer and putting in an order for coffee and as much carbohydrates as possible. It's going to be a long, sleepless night.


	17. Bring down the skies

After a night shift clogged with unimportant bull, accompanied by having to listen as Kelly Chambers had presented her never-ending analysis of their mission, Zaeed longs for a nice, uninterrupted session of shooting at stuff. Shepard putting him on standard rotation aboard the Normandy had been irritating to begin with, but last night had been exceptionally bloody bad.

No fags and no booze, making the boring duties on a ship seem monumental. He can just imagine Shepard's face if he requested a bottle of tequila and a pack of cigarettes to keep him company on his next night shift.

Hell, maybe he  _should_. She's going to get them all killed soon anyway, can hardly deny her dying crew's last wishes. Zaeed shakes his head; he's not one for kidding himself.

Of course Shepard would turn him down, she would turn everybody down. It's going to be protocol and soldier discipline to their last breaths with her in charge.

He spots her now by the counter where Gardner keeps their sad excuse for breakfast selections. Judging by her frown and the way her shoulder are tense and raised, he'd say she hasn't exactly had the best night either and to top it all off, she seems to be having a bit of an argument with Lawson.

"... a Cerberus mission, it's highly irresponsible to abort at this point." The Cerberus doll looks over her shoulder, clearly not comfortable with openly discussing whatever it is they're discussing. The Commander has most likely caught her on her way somewhere because that's how Shepard would subtly bully someone into agreeing with her, Zaeed knows. Pick a moment, pick an audience and play it unfair – if you disagree, you've not just disagreed but you've disagreed with your CO in public.

"...not aborting anything," Shepard retorts in that voice she has when she knows she's going to have her authority questioned. "Normandy will be in orbit around Omega ... stocking up on supplies."

"We've already done that, Commander."

Zaeed doesn't need to see Lawson's face to know she has that disapproving little wrinkle between her eyes. Only time she's looking human is when she's freaked out about something. He pours himself some coffee and tastes it, only to find that it's gone completely stale.

From the bits of the conversation he can overhear, he's beginning to get a pretty solid picture: Shepard's about to do something really fucking stupid – unofficial business, which means it's Alliance matters being carried out under false flag if Zaeed knows anything about this galaxy and he damn well does - and she gives the Cerberus doll instructions how to proceed without her, should she not return. She's careful, of course, thorough like any commanding officer.

Crazy Alliance bullshit, all of it. All these damn protocols and titles can't cover up the fact that some things are just beyond insane and there are no good reasons for them but you do them anyway because the galaxy rarely gives you a goddamn  _choice_. He can still be amazed at times to learn what lengths these good and noble soldiers go through just to head out and get blown to pieces like any other hired gun and unwanted element. How much time that gets wasted on protocol for no reason. Of course, Shepard would tell him that it wouldn't be a waste to document every step on the way to her death.  _We_   _can_   _learn_   _from_   _it_ , she preaches in his head.  _Do better._

She doesn't seem to stop for a second and consider that maybe this goddamn galaxy doesn't  _want_  her dead. There's plenty of evidence to support the notion that they're all better off with her around. He frowns, downing his coffee that is still too hot and leaves a slight discomfort in his mouth.

"This is a top-priority Cerberus mission-" Lawson attempts again.

"I don't work for Cerberus." Shepard's tone is hard as goddamn stone and just as impenetrable. Very few people could stand in the middle of a fancy Cerberus-built ship with all the resources in the galaxy at their disposal and piss on the man in charge of it all. She pulls it off as smoothly as usual; Zaeed feels that familiar mix of attraction and irritation surfacing. Today, though, the latter seems to win out and take him over. "You'll be the officer in charge until I return."

"And if you don't?"

"That didn't stop you last time."

" _Shepard_ -"

"You have your orders, Lawson."

Zaeed watches the two women as they part, their momentum unshattered, though he can definitely spot chinks in it. The Cerberus doll  _cares_. He hasn't seen it much before, but he can see it now. Her scrunched-up, pissed-off kind of expression is not a sign of a person who's indifferent to the situation.

Neither is his own irritation, he supposes.

There's a surge in his body that gets stuck in his throat - a frustrated, uncomfortable sensation that leaves him wound up with no real outlet because there's no goddamn  _sense_  to it at all. He feels it again as he catches up with the commander in the mess hall.

"So when the Alliance brass tells you to jump you just ask 'how high'?" The question slips out without effort, his tone not half as casual as he would have liked. "Thought you had balls, Shepard."

There have been occasions, most of them pretty recent, when he's thought that he's getting really good at reading this woman, knowing how to push the right buttons at the right times. She's coming and going in his life with surprising ease and he's begun to almost count on it, he realises now when she turns towards him, eyebrows raised. He's grown accustomed to thinking of her as his friend, as fucking weird as that is, which makes this situation even more absurd.

"Pardon?"

"Heard you're heading out on your own," he clarifies, even if he knows it's a typically shitty idea to go up against Shepard in a verbal fight. It's really none of his business anyway and the fact that he knows this makes him even more irritated. What the hell happened to get the job done, grab the credits and get out?

She sighs. "Bahak system. Batarian prison. That's all you need to know."

A Batarian fucking  _prison_.

"You defending batarians now?"

"No." Her eyes flash. She's stressed out and doesn't want to be bothered and he can't stop himself all the same. "This is not the time, Zaeed."

"What have they got on you?" He pushes ahead, ignoring her objections. "The Alliance. I'd really like to know. Must be some serious dirt."

The look she gives him tells him that even if there were some filthy little secrets covered up by high-ranking officers – and he kinda hopes there are – she'd much prefer bringing them with her to her goddamn grave than let them slip here and now.

"Why is that?" she snaps eventually as they round the corner next to the elevator. She pushes down hard on the button, keeping her gaze away from Zaeed's.

"Have you ever  _been_  to a batarian prison?"

"No, but I suppose you have and are about to tell me a long-winded story about it." At that she turns around. Her face looks like it's made of steel. Not used to being questioned by her subordinates, he knows. He supposes her former crew were all adoring fans of all her stunts and goddamn antics. Somehow that only triggers him more. Conceited, reckless  _bitch_. "Let me guess – you were the only one to make it out alive?"

"Something like that."

"I have a job to do now," she presses the elevator button again, impatiently. "You'll have to tell me later."

Zaeed shakes his head at the stubborn determination in her posture.

Then he watches her escape in the elevator while thinking about all the ways the batarians will kill her and carefully avoiding getting too deep into the reasons why this makes him so goddamn  _uncomfortable_.

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"Commander Shepard has excellent instincts," Chakwas states over the rim of her coffee mug. "And more lives than the proverbial cat."

The turian is silent beside her; Kasumi keeps checking her omni-tool where it looks like she has several different channels going. Zaeed's pretty sure at least half of those are hacked and bypassed, all of them breaching some Cerberus security protocol.

"Admiral Hackett is a good man," the doctor continues babbling. Normally Zaeed likes the lady and her big brain but today he feels like shoving a pack of meal bars down her throat to make her shut the hell up.

"Shepard is a good woman," Tali says, quietly. "That doesn't mean that she can't get killed. Again."

Her voice goes dark at the last word.

Zaeed feels finished with his breakfast and with hanging around the rest of the morose crew. They're mourning Shepard already and he's not one for premature displays of emotions – not much for large public displays of emotions in general but sometimes they're goddamn necessary, even he knows that. Borrowing grief, though, is just one of those idiotic things that never does anyone any good. He's still angry with the smug bitch because she just ditched them all and went to get herself tortured and chopped up by batarians, but he's damn well not going to assume her dead until he sees a corpse. When they do, he'll go shoot something.

He goes down the stairs to the fourth deck without meeting anybody. The whole ship has taken a somewhat unplanned vacation, it seems. If he runs out of amusing memories to keep him company in his quarters lately, he'll think of how this has affected Lawson and her meticulous Cerberus schemes.

The first person he sees on the entire level is Jack who stands by the window overlooking the drive core, looking angrier than usual. She has that weird shivering thing going on, which usually signals that a biotic needs to eat. He thinks about the meal sizes Shepard can wolf down after a battle, as though she needs one bite for every move she's made out there.

When Jack spots him she gives him a quick look, then returns her attention to the window. He notices that her hands are curled into fists and that they glow slightly.

"You gonna smash that glass?"

She shakes her head, growling dismissively. Still a bit of wild animal, this one. He's not sure she'll ever be anything else, no matter how much time Shepard devotes to her. Some people are just fucked up – in most cases because cruel shits like Cerberus scientists and ruthless slavers have made them that way - and there's nothing to be done about it except maybe take revenge. But even Zaeed realises that revenge only goes so far. It doesn't alter or mend anything no matter how good it feels. Of course, if someone challenged her, Shepard would probably try to tame a thresher maw so a crazy biotic is no match for her.

Then he remembers Tuchanka and Shepard's eyes as they had fought  _that_  maw, the rare brittleness in her gaze and the brief confession about Akuze. Zaeed had looked it up later and learned way too much about what must have happened to her and her crew out there; if he hadn't already been impressed with his commander, that would have done it. There's nothing that compares to watching everyone die around you he knows from experience. To sit tight like a trapped animal, outnumbered and scared shitless. It twists your head, shakes you up in ways you can't even describe.

 _Surprisingly well-adjusted_. If Shepard was here she'd smile at that throw-away intern joke, he thinks and suddenly wants to break the glass himself.

He shakes off his thoughts and joins Jack by the window.

"How long are we gonna wait here?" She doesn't seem to direct her question to him, but to the Normandy in general. "The fucking Collectors are out there and we're what, having coffee? Fuck that."

"You care about the Collectors now?" Zaeed leans against the glass. If she does decide to smash it, he'll land on a sharp bit of metal underneath but he can take that risk.

Jack looks at him for a while, like she's considering something.

"Bitch  _made_  me care," she says eventually, sounding surprised at her own words as though she's just realising it now. Not too bright, he concludes. Passionate and a bit daft, perfect soldier material, really. He doesn't tell her that. Her fists still glow, after all.

"You'll get to fight the Collectors," Zaeed says instead. "Whatever happens I bet Lawson won't let you off the ship until you have."

" _Lawson_." Jack sounds feral again. As much as he likes a good girl-on-girl fight, he's not willing to instigate any additional goddamn drama between them.  _Damn, I'm getting old._

"The Cerberus doll didn't lock you up in that cell."

"Whatever," she retorts before shooting him another glance; the corners of her mouth curl. "Cerberus doll.  _Ha_."

The crazy biotic is someone Zaeed could like, he concludes as he watches her now, all badly repressed feelings and a hardcore attitude. She isn't afraid to beat the odds. He likes that in a person. He'd think twice about  _hiring_  her, though, because he isn't goddamn Shepard who can make loyalists out of krogan. Or the Illusive Man who seems to shit credits left and right and can pay enough to make one of his old lab rats come running back. That's the part he doesn't get – why she agreed to come with them. Falling in line behind Shepard he more than gets by now, but kneeling to the goddamn Illusive Man after what his little organisation had done to her? He can't wrap his head around that.

Chances are, he thinks, that she can't either. Would explain why she's so pissed off all the time.

"Told her we should take the ship and run for it," Jack mutters, staring at the drive core below. "But she's such a saint. Look where being a fucking saint gets you."

Zaeed tries imagining Shepard as a pirate, lawless and preying on the weaker. Nearly goddamn impossible. Not for the first time since he learned about it he wonders, too, how the hell she made it as a gang member back on Earth. Choices must have been slim for her to submit to stupid, archaic gang code, leaving the decisions for others and being betrayed by your own men on a regular basis. People do whatever they need to do - basic law of the galaxy - but even a young, desperate Shepard must have been too hard and independent for any gang leader's liking.

_Hell, what do you know?_

He rubs his neck, unable to shake off the feeling that he's heading further into a goddamn trap. Twenty years – twenty  _good_  goddamn years – of not caring, of no badly acted camaraderie or make-believe team spirit, of no bastards stabbing you in the back because you were stupid enough to let your guard down for a second. The Normandy and its commander has ended an era in his life and he's not grateful.  _Look where being a fucking saint gets you._

Besides him, Jack has turned around, heading for the stairs down to her private quarters. Her voice is low, no more than a hissed curse, but Zaeed can hear what she's saying.

"If she's not coming back I swear I'm going to  _kill_  her."

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* * *

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Her head is full of noises when she forces herself to snap out of the sleep-like condition, ripping apart the last shreds of drugs in her system.

Three hundred thousand dead.

That's an almost ridiculous number.

She had tried to warn the batarians to decimate the massive losses at least somewhat, but of course it hadn't helped. She had shot Kenson, too, hoping to prevent her from pushing the button and blowing the asteroid up but she hadn't managed to surprise her enough and the doctor had triggered the explosion anyway. Not that there had been much else to do in the situation they had created.

Three hundred thousand and still counting.

It will be on her record now, among the other battles and achievements of her career. After Akuze she had learned that even something like that, even losses so absurd they seem like fiction, will fit on your resume somehow. Will make itself a place there, earn itself a name or a title.  _The one that got away_ , they called her back then. Or merely  _Akuze_. Among Alliance marines that had been enough to immediately place her in their memories. Anonymity is not an option.

She wonders what they will call her this time; she wonders what she will say.

But this is the future. She knows that with a sobering clarity as she sits up in the hospital bed. This is what it's going to be like, this is the limitless cruelty of their war. A line from one of the textbooks she had to bury herself in back when the Alliance gave her a new life in exchange for a high school degree and a proper haircut.  _The war to end all wars_. That's how humanity had perceived the first World War, how it's continued to perceive all massive conflicts ever since. The difference this time is that the hyperbole might very well be true. After this, nothing. Her throat feels dry.

 _What if we just walked away_ , she had asked Kaidan once. They were in transit, waiting to reach Ilos and he had been sitting it out with her, shoulder to shoulder in front of the largest window they could find as though watching every step of the way would somehow help the course.

 _We won't_ , he had said matter-of-factly and that's the reason she had asked him in the first place.

She misses him now, misses the part he had played, the man he is.

She misses  _then_.

Later, after Chakwas has examined her slight head trauma and not-so-slight shoulder fracture for a forth time – declaring Shepard's stats under control but  _don't you even think about leaving the med bay, Commander_  – she fires up her omni-tool and starts checking the extranet for any signs of what just went down in the Bahak system. No news so far, though it's only a matter of time.

They can't afford a war with the batarians. Not because they would lose – the batarians lack allies, have run out of options many cycles ago and humanity's up and coming – but because they need to focus on the Reapers. The geth had been a distraction that nearly cost the galaxy its very heart and this time around they must be smarter. She rubs a hand over her face, thinking about the Council and ambassador Udina and the admirals and Cerberus, looming dark and heavy over everything else, trapping her here.  _A lot of strings attached, for sure._

"You have a visitor, Commander."

Chakwas's voice slides carefully through her still-foggy consciousness and Shepard knows, as though recent events have hammered in a certain sense of truth in her bones, that it's Zaeed.

He enters without waiting for approval and that, too, falls heavy and honest between them. She sits up a bit straighter in her bed, trying to ease out a tension in her neck by moving it in different directions, rubbing the sore skin.

"You daft bloody bitch." He sounds every bit as angry as he had when she left for that prison, but his voice is marred with a harsh kind of concern that lands somewhere in her chest. She hadn't known - not for real, not that kind of knowledge that hits you and then  _sticks_  - that he cared and now she doesn't know what to do with it.

Shepard tries to smile or work up the energy to insult him back, but she's too tired. Too tired for games and battles and the constant quest to gain the upper hand with everyone. Instead she merely lifts her gaze from the datapad with the mission report she's painstakingly put together because Admiral Hackett has announced that he's on his way to see her. Estimated arrival in half an hour. It's not a conversation she looks forward to.

But right here and now, Zaeed stands in front of her.

"Everyone assumed you MIA," he says. "Real fucking downer, right before we were about to hit the collectors, too."

That's how it's going to look, she knows. Like a seriously bad call before the big fight. Military history is full of them but that doesn't mean it's any better to have them on your own resume.

"Yeah, got a little held up."

"What the hell did they do over there?"

"Tried to help the Reapers invade." She crosses her legs in an attempt of seeming casual and not as stiff and injured as she really is. "Indoctrinated, all of them. I... I blew up the relay to stop them."

His good eye widen slightly at the information, the expression on his face suddenly devoid of all of the irritation from before.

"Shit," he says eloquently.

Shepard nods. "Hopefully it delayed them a little."

Ever since she ran for her life outside that research facility, her mind has been calculating and organising the wide array of information, speculation and prospects that her little detour had given her. A little voice amidst the flurry of images keeps telling her that this will be it, this will be the only available solution. Shut off the galaxy, bit by bit, destroy it to defend it. It's a possibility that leaves a dark echo in her chest but it's as impossible to shake off as the voice of the Collector general that had told her everything they do is in vain.

"Might be a solid backup plan," Zaeed says when she tells him about that part, too. "Blowing the whole damn thing."

She feels her mouth curl into a half-smile. Trust Zaeed to have a Plan B – probably a necessity for a man whose original plans very rarely seem to work out as intended – long before they even have a plan A to launch into action.

"Who knows," she says. "With the relays gone the Reapers will at least have to use standard FTL speeds."

"Not for long." His face is impassive as he looks over her shoulder at the screen behind her that's probably displaying her stats. It strikes her how badly suited he seems to an environment like this one, all sterile surfaces and small beds. Zaeed's got a large presence, made for big places, big gestures. She wants to see him in a different setting, she thinks, wants to find out what he'd be like when he's not telling tall tales in her cargo or shooting stuff for Cerberus. "They'd find some way to adapt. Isn't that what the bastards do?"

"That's their thing, yes."

Neither of them point out the hopelessness in trying to defeat a race like that.

"So, what was it you wanted?" She rubs her neck and spots Doctor Chakwas approaching the medbay, probably to announce admiral Hackett's arrival.

"Just checking to see if you're still up for the mission I signed on for, that's all."

She can't refrain from grinning at him, at the transparency of his explanation. "Nice to know that you care, Zaeed."

"Yeah." His mouth quirks. "Whatever you wanna tell yourself, Shepard."

.

.

"At some point you'll have to go to Earth and face the music."

Her second visitor doesn't have Zaeed's inconveniently macho appearance; he fits better here among the slick screens and careful scientific research. He's also much more interested in both the strategy and the ethics of her mission. A detail-oriented man who knows that every little piece matters to the big picture.

Shepard nods, meeting Admiral Hackett's gaze with all the artificial confidence she can muster.

"Give me two weeks. I'll gladly stand trial once this mission is done, but I need to finish what I've started here."

He observes her for a beat. "Good to know that working with Cerberus hasn't stripped you of your sense of honour."

 _With_ , not for, she thinks. It might be too much liberal interpretation of the facts combined with a generous serving of wishful thinking but he doesn't assume a change of heart, like Kaidan had.

"No, sir."

It's a big deal, being debriefed in person by an admiral but to her it's also a ghost from the past in several ways. After Akuze she had met three admirals, all of them stern-faced and kind-voiced and incessantly curious about all that had taken place, everything that had been done to her crew.  _You couldn't have acted differently_ , Anderson kept saying yet every question she was ever asked had implied the opposite. Standard regulations, she knows, but guilt isn't a sensible feeling. It's a blow to your system, a knot in your stomach.

"Are we prepared for a Reaper invasion?"

She hasn't fully realised how much she has hoped for a positive reply until she looks at Hackett now, with Aratoht fresh in her body, the scars invisible but undeniably there.

"Frankly," he says, "I don't know."

Nodding, Shepard observes him for a while longer, wishing herself back at the Arcturus station, preparing with the rest of them. She has never been able to convince the Council of anything but the Alliance, she knows, would listen. Her position there is –  _was_  – more stable. If she can only make them listen in time there might be hope.  _Has_  to be, she corrects herself. There is always a way, even if that way is straight into a black hole.

"What about the Collectors?" Part of her asks questions to delay the inevitable, postpone the part where she alone will have to set out to find the enemies. "How well defended are our colonies?"

Hackett folds his arms across his chest. "The Alliance has stationed fleets around all larger colonies and evacuated several small ones. We're doing our best to avoid any large-scale abductions. But to be honest, Commander, we do hope you and Cerberus have an ace up your sleeve."

Outside the med bay she can see Tali and Garrus discuss something with Jacob, all three of them carrying datapads. A couple of crewmen walk by with mugs of coffee in their hands and she knows Miranda is at work in her office nearby, getting everything ready for the installation of the Reaper IFF. If it's an ace remains to be seen but it's a course of action, a  _something_  to ward off the destruction of their entire race.

"We might have," she says.

"I thought as much." He nods, indicating wordlessly that their meeting is over. "See you soon then. I hope you still have your dress blues somewhere. You'll need them."

"Yes, sir."

"And Commander?" He stops but doesn't turn around to look at her. "Good luck."


	18. Legions and armies

Illium seems like a good stop for a personal day.

At least that had been Shepard's reasoning when she ordered it, and it's as good a place as any to wait for the final technical preparations before they're ready to implement the Reaper IFF and then fully explore their geth companion. It had been strange to activate it and she's barely slept between juggling all the possible scenarios and reactions to the activation – having Tali and Garrus monitoring it as well as each other and EDI supervising on a different level altogether – and trying to make sense of the aftermath of the events in the Bahak system.

_The events in the Bahak system_. That's what it's called now, in Alliance correspondence and intel.

There's always a nice, neutral way to describe hundreds of thousands of deaths and she has never, not during all her years of training, learned how to not find it repulsive. All the games and diplomacy of galactic society, the countless quiet little wars going on. If they can pull through this last mission, she will have to do a lot of that – criss-crossing between invisible battlefields and metaphorical unhealed wounds.

Illium serves as a distraction, Shepard thinks. In several ways.

" _Oh_ ," Kasumi exclaims by her side now, stooping over a market stand where a ton of electronic gadgets are on display.

"Anything good?"

"Even better than good." She holds up a small "I've always wanted to own one of these before I die. Should seize the moment while I'm still alive."

For someone wasting so much of herself being stuck in her past, Kasumi currently seems really pleased about the present and Shepard can't help but smile.

After a meeting with Liara who has some black market SMG upgrades and a bit of batarian space intel to offer, Shepard joins her crew at the private area of Eternity for what passes as a meal on an asari world. The seats at the private section had been courtesy of Liara, too, though they don't mean much in terms of privacy or, as it turns out, service. But it gives them an uninterrupted moment and saves them the trouble of being asked to leave when the real and local VIP guests arrive.

It wasn't too long ago that they were here last time, though it feels like it. Time is compressed lately, every day seems to contain a whole year's worth of events and memories and losing one, as Miranda had pointed out this very morning, could be detrimental to their mission.

Shepard glances at her now, sitting in between Jacob and Tali, the three of them studying the menu in silence. When Admiral Hackett had left the ship, Miranda had entered the medbay with her datapads and her omni-tool all fired up, seemingly ready to continue the argument from before. Except she hadn't. Not because Shepard had ordered her to stand down, but because something had changed in her tone, a slight alteration of her gaze as it fell on Shepard.

_I don't have what you do_ , Miranda had said; the words had seemed out of place but honest. Raw truths clawing their way out during the worst of times. Shepard has seen it happen before, sees it so often she's begun counting on it.  _That fire that makes someone willing to follow you into hell itself._

_I'd follow you_ , Shepard had responded but Miranda had laughed her cool and brittle laugh and called her bluff. She worries, Shepard had understood there and then. She worries about her mission, about her crew, because she knows they're never going to be fully under her command.

_You didn't even want to follow me out of a burning facility when we first met, Shepard._

Truth be told, Shepard isn't sure that has changed over the months they've been working together. It's not about Miranda, really, it's more a Cerberus thing, a distrust that has spread to her entire body – her  _design_ , she thinks glumly – and lingers there. It includes Jacob to an extent, though he's more of a free agent than Miranda, has less idealism even if he might think the opposite. Less ideals and a stronger sense of right and wrong, that gut feeling that any commander worth the title can spot in her subordinates and put to good use.  _You do what's right, not what you're told_ , Anderson had said to her once when she had stood in his Arcturus office, wide-eyed and disbelieving at the revelation that he had nominated her for the N7 program.

Besides her, Garrus makes a content sound as he receives his drink – hard liquor, she's willing to bet – and has a first taste for it. Shepard looks at him.

"I need to ask something of you," she says, suddenly remembering.

He gives her a glance. "On our personal day and everything?"

"Yeah, look. I haven't been able to tell what damage the Reapers can do to my cybernetics." She says the last word with a suppressed shudder still, after all these months the implants continue to remind her of everything that is wrong with at least this particular slice of the galaxy. The strive for control that takes on every shape, knows no limit, that so quickly can erase the fine line between employing medical technology and playing god. "Kasumi and I have been looking into it, but so far we've been out of luck."

Garrus waits, wordless and impassive.

"Now we're out of time as well, and I need to know that you will make sure that whatever the Reapers do to me, it won't endanger the mission."

"Shepard-" he tries, but cuts himself off. He knows the drill, the military protocols are no more foreign to him than they are to her and ultimately he's just as familiar with the updated ones that take into account all the unimaginable horrors of their previous war.

"If we find out that they can control me, you need to deal with that." She takes a sip of her own drink – an asari pale ale, reminding her of her first shoreleaves when every day off seemed like an eternity and the bars on every human colony they were stationed on felt like havens.

There's a heavy silence at their side of the table as Garrus finds the order within the order and then nods, barely visibly. It's not fair, but nothing in life is.

She places a hand on his arm.

.

.  
.

"Shepard-Commander? Your decision?"

It's almost unbelievable to her now that a little more than two years ago, the geth were the biggest, darkest threat they could think of. That all of their fears and nightmares were pinned to this one synthetic life form spreading out across the galaxy, every effort focused on stopping them. Then she finds herself ridiculous for forgetting so soon, for comparing.

The losses had been great back then, but the war had been fought with a whole galactic council covering it up; it had been a war with peace and prosperity and the magnificent Citadel as a backdrop and on occasion even the Normandy crew had allowed themselves to feel that maybe they were overreacting. Maybe things weren't so bad.

They were.

But now, in retrospect and with the Reapers looming in the distance, Shepard almost longs for a simple straight-up war against the geth all over again. Another Battle of the Citadel, devastating as that had been, hell, even another Virmire where Saren got away and Ash got left behind in the rubble of their pyrrhic victory would be preferable over this. Fighting on the battlefield is what she's trained to do. Fight, lead, command. Not make decisions that could forever alter diplomatic and political relationships across the galaxy. Who the hell is she to "re-write" anything or anyone?

This whole station and everything about it suddenly seems like a bad, strange dream from years ago.

"These are  _geth_." Zaeed's voice cuts through the flickering screens and vast collection of intel and numbers flashing before them where they stand, about to give a command. "Is this even a question?"

"Not to you, maybe."

He shrugs. "Don't bother with the reprogramming, just blow them out of the sky."

_We gain complexity by linking together._  That's what the activated geth –  _Legion, for we are many_  – had said. Even so she's not entirely sure that new code would solve the issue and they're not exactly at a point where they can be generous. Two years ago she would have been. Two years and a lifetime ago she had released the rachni queen without the sliver of doubt because even trapped in a race against Saren, she had held on to her hard-earned morals.

They're much more difficult to see in this place. Slippery, like tiny pieces of herself that have escaped, that Cerberus didn't manage to bring back.

She stares into the data core, trying to instil some life and sentiments into it but it only stares back with blankness. Blankness and the images in her head, a cycle of violence, misjudgements, of indoctrination and death. A cycle of friends lost and allies wasted.

"Blow them up," she says eventually and Zaeed's raised eyebrow doesn't pass unnoticed. "We've an opportunity to end this. I won't waste it."

A deep breath, followed by the calmness that only a firm decision can create.

_This one's for you, Williams_.

A few moments pass while Legion completes the order and they stand there on either side of him; her gaze meets Zaeed's and he nods slightly, as if he's approving. She isn't certain she can stand his approval in these matters so she ties it, this choice and its consequences, to the gunnery-chief she left behind in enemy territory.  _That_ , she can stand.

_To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield._

.

They've reached the shuttle outside when Shepard has the first message from the Normandy – a brief, terse note sent over the emergency channel.

_Anomalies in Normandy's signature, we're transmitting our location,_  it reads and Shepard exhales slowly.

She knows suddenly that the war has begun now, for real, and that they've just lost the first round.

.  
.

* * *

.

The ship feels hollow without the crew. Like the Reapers have ripped out an organ or two.

It's not a ship's purpose to be empty, Zaeed thinks as Shepard enters his quarters, bringing all the shadows and ghosts from the recent briefing with her. It's inherit in its very design to have a body full of people, voices and footsteps filling up the decks and fortifying it from the inside. Without a crew, the Normandy is just an empty – however fancy - shell. It reminds him of a mission out in the Titan Nebula where he and a couple of turian mercs had run into derelict cruisers by the dozen. They had boarded one, guns drawn, only to find that everyone was dead – poisoned by batarian terrorists, he learned later – and the corpses had begun to rot. It had been the same for every single ship. He still recalls the stench and the goddamn waste of it all. Years afterwards he learned that it got pretty much hushed up in all media, likely because the terrorists had some connections to other species less inclined to end up exposed as goddamn monsters.

She'd made a bad call with the Heretics station, bringing nearly everyone with a reasonably good aim with her, leaving the ship undefended. He gets the reasoning behind it – the geth could have rigged a damn trap for them and they've come too far to be held back by goddamn schemes and surprise tactics. No shock that she wanted her best soldiers flanking her. Zaeed would have done the same.

Then it had backfired rather gloriously.

And Commander Shepard, Zaeed knows, isn't used to screwing up.

"We'll be there soon," she says, voice tight and tired but with all the fight left in it. He feels a strange relief, as though her willingness to kick the collector's goddamn arses is the most important parameter. Hell, maybe it is.  _Nobody messes with my people_. This battle already seems long overdue, like an old ache in his body, a nagging thought circling around at the back of his mind.

"Joker handled himself well. Should have gone down here for a real weapon, though," he says. "Still, did well for a kid with glass bones. Pretty sure I would have been laid up in bed if I were him."

His commander doesn't move. "You should tell him that."

"Maybe I will."

Shepard leans against the window and folds her arms. With the galaxy as a backdrop she looks like something straight out of an Alliance recruitment drive, all muscles and determination and good-looking features. Clean and trustworthy. The fact that Zaeed knows about her past and her doubts only makes the image all the more goddamn appealing; all the imperfections of her worm their way under his defences. Last night, when they returned to an empty ship, she had kept it together like a professional as long as she was being watched and then, when only Zaeed and the turian were left in the conference room she had ran her fist into the wall, leaving a frighteningly large dent.

Her military bravado can occasionally make Zaeed want to put a bullet in her leg, but he would follow her to hell and back for that goddamn dent.

"I'm scared," she admits now and like any good leader she manages her confession to sound somewhat encouraging, like she's just one of them and  _everything's going to be fine_. Sometimes he wonders if they've all been to a bloody conference to learn this crap.

He watches her watch the stars. Her face is calm, her expression completely composed. If it wasn't for the fact that she's just told him about her fear, nobody would know. No, he corrects himself. He'd know anyway. He'd know based on the fact that she's here, that she's lingering past the debriefing and final checks; he'd know it from the way her shoulders are square and harsh, her posture unrelenting. Since day one on the ship Zaeed's been searching this woman for duplicity – old habits die hard – and Shepard, he's come to realise, is nothing if not goddamn honest. If she's keeping shit from you – and of course she does – she's upfront about that, too.  _That's none of your business. Classified. Off you go_. But she's a slippery one, all the same. Elusive like a goddamn con-artist and heartfelt like soppy military lingo, two extremes mixed inside one human being. He's witnessed her with the crew for quite some time now and she does that skilled stunt where she gets friendly without ever really giving them anything personal, anything of herself.

This, he thinks with a weird sense of pride, is different.

"You'd be a goddamn fool if you weren't."

"Are you?" She gives him a long, appraising look.

"Scared or a goddamn fool?" he stands beside one of his trophies, wondering how long it's been since he spent the time prior to a mission hoping he'd survive, bargaining with gods and forces he doesn't believe in. His main reason for wanting out of that goddamn relay in one piece is Vido – there will be no death for Zaeed Massani until that creep is blown to pieces, he'll hang on for as long as it takes to see that through. That doesn't create fear, though, only anger. And her fear, he knows suddenly, is what gives her that extra edge, what keeps her so damn sharp that she always brings everybody back home with her. So far this pisshole of a galaxy hasn't been able to entirely beat it out of her. "I haven't got anything to lose, Shepard."

"Yeah." Her voice drops; she shakes her head a little and returns to the window, staring at the stars again. "That's the trick, isn't it?"

"It's just how it is." He isn't about to go bloody sentimental on her but the fact is that he knows no one, not a soul even among the worst kind of battle-hardened mercs, who wouldn't prefer having something to value in their lives.

She understands what he isn't saying, he can tell.

"You've been a good friend, Zaeed." She offers him a smile over her shoulder; it's a brief, almost grim smile that suits the conversation. She's good at that, has a tone for every mood. "Even if I'm paying you for that friendship."

Her remark may be meant as a joke but it hits a spot in him where it leaves a bad taste, a shadow of something dark and bitter.

"I'd do this one for free," he says, defiantly. It comes out of his mouth sounding like a drunken bar brawl –  _I'll kill twenty warren alphas with this piece of metal I found in a goddamn ditch on Eden Prime!_  - and it's true, in parts. Other parts are much more sentimental than he'd like to admit to his commanding officer right before battle. Or any time, really. But he feels it as he hears the words. He means them, too, at least here and now. In twenty goddamn years this is the closest thing to a friendship he's managed, the closest he's ever been to those flimsy fucking ideals he shed along the way and buried somewhere safe.

Shepard turns around; her eyes shift colour sometimes, he thinks. Go from brown to green to brown again. Now they appear darker, nearly black, like this goddamn war has altered her. Maybe it's her Cerberus implants, gone wild. Maybe she'll self-destruct once this mission is done.

He has a sudden urge to tell her something she needs to hear, provide some words of sodding wisdom or whatever, but he has no idea what those would be. It's just the sight of her silhouetted against the stars that doesn't leave him alone.

It's too big, too damn  _much_.

"ETA half an hour," EDI informs them then and the opportunity window for everything that isn't the mission snaps shut. "Your presence is required in the CIC, Commander."


	19. Vanishing point

There's a sharp, uneasy tension in the conference room as Shepard enters it, altering the atmosphere considerably before she's even begun talking.

Zaeed can't blame people for fretting. Getting the Normandy across the goddamn Tartarus Debris Field is going to be difficult enough, not to mention finding a safe landing zone. Add to that the black hole underneath them – the moment they compromise the Reaper tech that Shepard assumes is holding the Collector station upright that hole is going to want some goddamn payback. And knowing Shepard, tampering with Reaper tech is precisely what she plans to do.

He watches the briefing in silence, not really caring either way which tactics they use. He's never been much of a strategist –  _no_   _shit_ , Shepard mocks in his head – and in this company he's actually more than happy to leave the decision making to others. Even if they're going down into a black hole, he trusts Shepard and her crazy helmsman to make them go down in style.

Even if he disagrees on some details there's not a hell of a lot he can do about it anyway. Besides yammering endlessly like Taylor and Lawson. Those two lapdogs actually agree with her, too, but they can't keep their mouths shut anyway so they rant and rave and repeat things the commander has already gone through. Bloody nerves, he knows, but it's still annoying. Shepard had announced that they were at their last comm buoy to break up the crowd before – _time for those last calls, people_  – and he wishes she would do the same again. Except, of course, she can't because they're past that. Heading for that dark hole where ships go to die. He wonders briefly who Shepard would call. If she had called. He doubts it. This woman collects people like its a goddamn hobby, hoarding them all over the galaxy, but she doesn't stop for a second to think about them. For several cycles Zaeed has seen her reach out to allies and random bystanders and he's seen them change because of it, because of her. Then she sweeps away again, leaving nothing behind. It's a habit she seems unaware of, a disregard that isn't deliberate but still seems like such a goddamn waste. Hell, if Zaeed had half her people skills the Blue Suns would be a very different organisation right now and he wouldn't spend half his time getting shot at by Vido-loving batarian scum.

Shepard folds her arms across her chest and shifts her weight, looking intently at everyone gathered around her.

Zaeed had, he remembers, found the commander deeply unimpressive at first sight. She had greeted him, tired and worn, lacking fire in her eyes. It hadn't been the kind of person he imagined following on a crazy-as-hell suicide mission. Now she's more impressive than anything he could have thought of back then because like all good leaders, adversity brings out the best in her, polishes her good traits into goddamn beacons and covering up everything else.

"Now we're taking the fight to the Collectors," she states dramatically and Zaeed sees how the gathered crew listens, how they seem willing to believe.

Hell, even Zaeed gets carried away as they go through the plan one last time and Shepard lets her gaze travel over every face in the room, looking straight and honest at them.

"Make me proud," she says simply.

.  
.

Zaeed wonders how he'll tell people about this fight, how he's going to do justice to this human goddamn reaper creature. It's one of the creepiest thing he's ever seen and what's more – it eats itself inside his brain, meddles with his feelings and his judgement. It's just something about that sight that projects visions of doom left and right, something dark and beckoning and impossible to shake off.

As it heaves itself up, towering above them, he ducks behind cover and spots Shepard a few feet away, Legion in front of them. The strange geth had survived crawling through the vents and as a reward, the commander has picked it to be reaper fodder out here on a goddamn platform that's going to go down fairly soon, Zaeed's sure of it. Always one for using her soldiers wisely, she's got a plan for every step of the way here and the moment she rearranged the group before this – hopefully – last stand, he knew what her constellation would look like.  _The best shot and the most expendable soldier,_  he can hear her in his head.

"Heads up," she shouts at them. "I'm going for the feeding tubes!"

However he decides to tell this war story it will have to wait a while, he thinks, remembering the doctor's words about those pods.  _They're processing humans into genetic materials_. Processing. That's not the kind of story you swap over a glass of vodka, that's just not  _right_.

There's a beat of utter, eerie silence when the anomaly finally dies. Zaeed observes Shepard who doesn't let the dying Reaper out of her sight, watching it intently as it falls into the chasm below them and he doesn't really know what to say about it. All of this is so vastly above his pay-grade that it's ridiculous.

For the galaxy's sake it's lucky it's the commander who makes the calls here and she strides up to the platform's core.

"I'm blowing this place to pieces," Shepard declares, but before she's had time to finalize that part of her plan, she's interrupted by a call from the Illusive Man who, true to his own way of doing things, suggests they keep the base intact and use it for research. Or "to secure humanity's future against the Reapers and beyond" as the pompous bastard puts it.

Shepard snorts, her irritation so unmistakable that it almost makes him grin.

Zaeed shoots her a glance over the holo; her face is closed and determined and he knows she won't listen to anyone at this point. Still, he has no desire to see the human race being churned into goddamn DNA paste so he gives it his best shot.

"When somebody gives you a weapon, you don't complain that it's dirty, Shepard. You use it."

"My point exactly," the Illusive man adds, effectively shooting down that tiny fraction of possibility that the commander would listen to Zaeed.

 _Asshole_.

The commander looks at them both with badly concealed contempt.

"I won't let fear compromise who I am," she says curtly, snapping the holo call shut. "And I always complain. Are we clear?"

_Sir, yes, sir._

Zaeed shrugs. When it comes down to it, he's not  _that_  invested in the Illusive Man's plan and he decides to trust that Shepard won't let humanity become Reaper food any time soon. Not much to do about it either way.

"We're clear."

.  
.

When he wakes up, she's stooped over him, one of her hands touching his face. There's a smell of burnt metal and he realises he's trapped under something, a heavy load pressing down on his side and hip.

"Zaeed?"

He blinks. The touch of that hand sinks so deep into his past that he can practically see time dissolve and restore itself, forming new patterns in the air around her face.

All the years merge and fall apart; he blinks again and sees the same blurry image of another face, another pair of hands, another voice coming from above him.  _Shit_.  _He's_...  _Shit, shit, shit._   _You fucking bastards. This wasn't... shit. I've called for a med team. I'm sorry._  Shona. He hadn't been able to ask how much Vido had offered her, hadn't been able to move his lips or even open his eyes properly because the pain, he still recalls, the pain had been overpowering every instinct of his body. Hell, he'd been just about  _dead_ , lying about in his own piss on the ground when the medical team swooped in and saved him – in reality they had saved her damn conscience as much as they had saved his life and he won't ever forgive her for that.  _Little_   _bitch_. To this day he isn't sure she did it for herself or because it would amuse Vido to think of Zaeed waking up as a goddamn cripple, thrown out of his own organisation.

" _Zaeed_?" This woman isn't Shona and this isn't a back alley on Earth; he blinks again, trying to rid himself of the fuzzy filter of ash and smoke that seems to get into his system and prevent him from speaking or moving. "You alright?"

"Yeah," he finally manages and Shepard looks at him for a long time before she holds out her hand.

"Come on then."

.

* * *

.

She's never been afraid to die.

Even after the recklessness of her youth was smoothed out and replaced with responsibility and something the Alliance admirals like to call  _a strong sense of honour_ , Shepard has never shied away from risking her own life. Hesitation has just never been much of an option in her line of work and it's not the moment of death she fears, it's the many hows and whys on the way there.

Because it matters, she knows,  _how_  you dissolve into nothing more than flesh and bone - or  _bio-synthetic fusions reinforced with cybernetics_  in her case - and return to the great beyond.

It  _matters_.

The despair she had felt as she thought – for a fraction of a second - that she wouldn't make it back to the ship is a sore patch in her mind, an unhealed wound that keeps aching. When she though she was being killed by the indoctrinated at Project Base she had felt fury, not grief. Anger directed at the Collectors, at Hackett, at the easily corrupted human mind. It would have been a pity to die that way, sure, but it wouldn't be comparable to this nightmare. At the base she had been overwhelmed by sadness, regret, a loud mourning for her own life.

_I can't die for Cerberus. Not like this, not this way, I'm not done._

In preparation for the Omega 4-relay she had taken stock, analysed the details, summed up her past year or so and reduced it to debriefings, extranet correspondence and assorted mission vids. When they were on Omega she had sent it, assisted by Kasumi and a nifty security loophole, to both Anderson and Admiral Hackett. Then, as a gesture of trust or because the image of him as her closest confidante is so fresh in her mind regardless of what has passed between them, she had managed a heavily encrypted message to Kaidan as well. No details, just enough for him to put together a search for them, should they not return.

_Make sure we don't end up as debris out in the field._

She had been prepared for anything; she had not been prepared for wanting to live.

She shuffles the datapads on her desk, reaches for a glass of water and leans back in her chair.

Five hours since they returned. It will never cease to amaze her how fast things go from absurd to routine, how quickly you adjust from fighting for your life to having coffee in the mess hall, waiting for Doctor Chakwas to examine your injuries. And then you start to fret, because even though you should be sleeping, the post-battle adrenaline and possible drugs in your body keeps you on edge until you more or less crash.

It will be a few hours yet before Shepard crashes - she knows herself well by now, upgrades and all. Until then she might as well keep herself useful.

There's a new message since last time she checked less than ten minutes ago; the next few days will contain quite a lot of messages, she thinks. And a lot of getting the hell out of the Illusive Man's way before he sends some of his troops to kill her and everyone involved with this mission. They'd taken a big risk with the Collector base –  _she_  had taken a big risk, using everyone on the Normandy as currency in the conflict with the Illusive Man.  _You_   _don't_   _just_   _up_   _and_   _leave_   _Cerberus_ , Miranda had said quietly to her on the shuttle back, her face so  _alive_  all of a sudden, her voice shaking. For a few seconds there and then, she had been utterly human and completely devastated and Shepard had allowed her hand to touch Miranda's and they had stood there, not saying anything else.

Yet she had felt no hesitation, feels no regret now. Nothing good can ever come from something as dark and twisted as that base; there's no using weapons that corrupted. Pouring resources into Cerberus is a questionable thing all on its own but giving them something as unique as what they just witnessed would be completely idiotic.

 _Figured_   _it_   _would_   _go_   _something_   _like_   _this_ , Garrus had said when they were the only ones left in the armoury afterwards, stripping themselves of breastplates and helmets and the scent of death and mud.  _The Illusive Man had no idea what he signed up for._

Somehow, Shepard doesn't think it will be that easy. Cerberus seems like the sort of people you don't simply outrun, not even in a galaxy at war.

 _All payments should have come through,_ Miranda's message states. _Including yours. I double-checked it before be departed for the Omega 4-relay._

That leaves them all a bit richer, though who knows if they'll even get an opportunity to spend the credits before the Reapers are at their door, ready to finish what they've started and what Shepard has only been able to partly delay. A lot of small victories doesn't make up for the fact that their future is looking really damn dark.

She's interrupted in her glum state of mind by the voice coming from her wall console.

"Mr Massani is requesting access to enter, Commander."

She nods needlessly. "Thank you, EDI, let him in."

Zaeed.

Her body still re-lives the Collector homeworld, its many horror and scenes like flicking shadows in her head and legs, in her hands and fingers, behind her eyelids if she closes her eyes. She remembers – slowly and inch by inch, as though the memory aims at filling her entirely - the despair that had all but floored her when she saw the human reaper, every badly transmitted call to the other teams to check on the rest of her squad, the explosion, Zaeed losing his foothold and falling rapidly into the chasm.

It had been pure instinct to go after him. The proper protocol had been playing at the back of her mind, but it had been her gut that reacted first and he had seen it, she knew that the moment their eyes met on the platform, her hand wrapped around his wrist. He had seen it and he had understood.

There's a lot of regs for it, for saving someone's life.  _We don't leave our wounded behind_  and every other clichéd saying from those protocols she once knew by heart. When you're the commanding officer on a ship that's about to go down, all those words are crutches and lifelines yet they say so very little about the reality of it all. About what it does to you, saving and being saved. How it alters something in the texture of your own life, adjusts its worth somehow.

 _Zaeed_.

At first sight he looks like an anomaly in her cabin and she can't recognise why exactly - save the obvious reasons – but then it hits her that he's never actually been here. For someone she's been so friendly with over the past few months it should perhaps be odd that this is the first time he's in her quarters given how often she points out her open doors policy. Except it's not. Her doors are open out of principle, not necessity. The only one who's been up here besides Zaeed, she realises now, is Liara.

 _There's always another mission_ , Thane, of all people, echoes in her head.  _None of them are an excuse to make yourself an island._ Hell, even Mordin had pointed out her being a recluse the night before they travelled to the relay. It doesn't feel like a great accomplishment as far as socialising skills go when even the single-minded salarian scientist calls her bluff.

"What can I do for you?" she asks, as though she is oblivious to what's been going on for a while now, this seemingly inevitable pull that's damn well impossible not to enjoy.

His expression betrays nothing as he holds up a bottle that looks as expensive as Shepard knows it is.

"Keeping your end of the bargain, for a start," he retorts and walks up to her desk. The bottle gleams in the light from the computer screen, making the liquid look orange and red, like fire. She lifts her gaze from the bottle, meeting Zaeed's; it sends a jolt of interest – strange, hot curiosity – down her spine.

"I'll get glasses." She says it without blinking but she can feel the corners of her mouth twist. She's never been what anybody would call sultry and she's horrible at flirting, though not for lack of trying. The suggestions always seem to become statements in her mouth, the subtle edges get hard and crude when she tries to put them into words. Too many barked orders and not enough submission, Kasumi had concluded once.

"That'll help." He smirks.

When she looks at his face now she can still see his mix of anger and fear as she pulled him up from the collapsed platform, her own mix of frustration and grief as she found him lifeless under a heavy pile of debris, that inexplicably strange sensation of being in way over her head when he made sure she got inside the shuttle, one arm around her shoulder for just a second too long.

Suppressing a grimace, she pushes the memories away. That path is  _raw_ , surrounded by traps in every direction and she hasn't got the time for it. She pours the liquor and presses back the wave in her body, holding up her defences as the hordes rumble through.

"Your money's on the way," she say to steer herself back on track, though she's unsure she wants to. Pretty damn muddy, these tracks.

Zaeed nods; he isn't quite making eye contact as she hands him his drink and there is no reply. She wonders about his planned retirement, wants to ask about a lot of things but can't find the words tonight. After the Collector base there is a lot of silence creeping into their bones, she can feel it already.

Shepard takes a seat in one of the leather couches by her desk, watching intently as her guest – still looking misplaced, the  _unfamiliarity_  of it tugging at her composure - does the same. The black ink on his arms seems to bleed into the leather that curves itself around his large frame.

She drinks quickly and greedily with the knowledge that it's not going to be enough, never enough to make the world spin like it once did or shut off the brainwaves as completely as it once had. Still, it comes pretty damn close.

The way he had looked up at her back at the Collector base, back when she figured him dead and had to check his pulse, allowing her own touch to linger. A moment of unguarded reaction, smashing straight into her. It startles her, even now.

"So what's this?" she asks, downing the rest of her whiskey. There's no need for specifications, he has been tapped into her line of thoughts for most of this run and in this room right now she's made no effort to disguise or disfigure.  _Come on then, shake me up._

He looks up, raises an eyebrow. "What the hell do you  _think_  it is, Shepard?"

_That's the billion dollar question, isn't it?_

"You wanting a last, great conquest?" she suggests in an easy tone that gets a weird, slightly too brutal slant in the light of everything that's happened now. Clinging to each other in the face of death tends to beat arrogance out of you but the two of them are too battle-scarred for polishing, too seasoned to transform. Whatever it's done, it hasn't softened them.

"Nothing wrong with your confidence." His tone is dry but not unamused; the little edge of something sharp in it tells her that maybe she's not entirely off the mark. Once she would have cared about that, would have raised hell for pride and principles, now she's not sure it matters.

"No," she agrees. She keeps her gaze tied with his. "Or with my judgement."

He frowns. "You think I'll snap a vid of it and brag about it all over the extranet like some 16 year-old virgin?"

"Wouldn't you?"

He gives a gruff bark of laughter. "Not bloody likely."

Shepard doesn't normally  _talk_  about these things and she's willing to bet all of her still living fish in the tank that the same goes for Zaeed who's put down his empty glass on the table and leaned back in his seat. Smug old bastard.

"And what would I get out of it?" she retorts, looking him straight in the eye. It doesn't seem to upset his balance in the slightest and while it's a bit annoying, it's also part of the package. He's intense and certain enough for her to almost momentarily doubt herself and the effects of that is shocking when they hit her. Nothing shakes her, nobody comes even close. Except this old mercenary who's looking at her now with his fixed stare.

"One hell of a ride."

She has to laugh. "Nothing wrong with your confidence either."

He shrugs.

Shepard sucks in a sharp breath. So much unexplored,  _unfinished_  territory here and she can't find it in her to sort it all out so she knows she will take the easiest way, pretending it's the only one. She will hold on to it like a lifeline because in some aspects it is. She never stops anywhere, never rests or lingers but there's something holding her here for now and the novelty in that is thrilling in itself. The rest of it, whatever  _that_  is, can be dealt with later if at all. The Reapers throb dully in her head, the mental images of a whole invading Reaper fleet tapping on the inside of her skull along with the sight of the Collector base, the wreckage of this whole damn galaxy, the future, Zaeed's eyes as she stood over him, searching for life signs.

His good eye glitters in the dusk of her cabin; the stars aren't showing in her ceiling and she thinks it's strangely appropriate.

"Okay," she says eventually and for half a heart-beat there's a brief sign of surprise in his face, causing a break in his unshakable confidence. The sight of it worms its way far deeper inside her than anything else and she's really damned grateful when he gets to his feet and closes the gap between them, putting an end to it, finally.

"Okay," he repeats and it's not a question. He runs a thumb across her latest injury – a burn on her right shoulder – up along her neck and chin; his hands are large and warm and calloused, his touch unexpectedly gentle. But before she's even had time to finish that trail of thought he's pulled her closer with decidedly more force and she struggles against him, fighting for her upper hand by shoving them both up against the fish tank. Zaeed grins.

She breathes in the faded ink on his neck, his throat, tasting metal and after-shave, soaking up his scent like a feral animal picking up a trail. The heat radiating off of his body soothes the chill in her thoughts; that dark, looming threat creeping closer and closer seems far away all of a sudden, kept out by a careful arrangement of Zaeed's arms around her, of her hands reaching for his shoulders, his face, nails digging softly into his scalp, of their quick, instinctive movements towards each other.

"Slow, ugly old dogs try harder, didn't you say so yourself?" her voice is thick with booze and  _want_  and the sound of it makes both of them look at each other.

His hands are on her hips, her fingers twisted around themselves and the cropped hair at the back of his neck.

"Damn right," he mutters.

Then he kisses her, rough and hungry, and Shepard presses her palms against his chest to slam him back, thinking of adrenaline rushes and pleasant numbness and then – as Zaeed's teeth graze her lower lip and one of his hands slide beneath her shirt – she thinks of nothing else.

Skin on skin; no more, no less.


	20. Epilogue: One hell of a ride

On their last day of service together, Miranda and Shepard don't uncork the champagne, but instead they go through charts and journals together.

Doctor Chakwas's reports are neatly lined up in front of them along with various reports and statements from the crew. A few of them are doing decidedly worse than others. Wilkinson hasn't spoken more than three words since returning to the ship, Bengtsson is resigning altogether, asking if Cerberus has any retirement plan. A handful of low-ranking operatives are being given new identities by Miranda – who does her work with the usual diligence but more passion than Shepard's seen in her before. Same goes for Jacob who's already made a plan for his near future; it's secret enough that he refuses to divulge any details beyond the fact that it involves mobilising potential resources for the war.

And Kelly Chambers is bursting into tears at any questions regarding the abduction and the Collector homeworld, asking to be dropped off as soon as possible.

Shepard looks at Miranda across the table.

It's been a delicate balance act and Miranda's performance has been a good one – more than that, especially recently – and part of Shepard wishes she'd come along to Earth instead of doing what a high-ranking Cerberus officer in charge of a highly secretive project will have to do after announcing her complete refusal to cooperate. The thought makes Shepard uneasy.

As though mind-reading is among the list of traits Mr Lawson had desired in his daughter, Miranda looks up and there's a flicker of regret crossing her face.

"Shepard, you should know that Kelly Chambers-" she cuts herself off, adjusting something on one of her reports.

Shepard sighs, already suspecting what's to come. "I've assumed from the first moment on this ship that all of you would report back to the Illusive Man," she says. "Especially Kelly Chambers."

" _Shepard_ -"

"It's fine, Miranda. Really. I know the game."

There have been times when she's wondered if the Illusive Man would really  _expect_  her to trust a ship full of Cerberus tech and Cerberus people and if he hadn't, then what had he been playing at? It's a maze of thoughts and sneaking suspicions and she's put it to rest now, deciding it doesn't matter anyway.

_My work here is done._

.

The CIC is crowded: Ex-Alliance solders arguing with each other about the prospect of running back to the military brass with the tail between their legs, two Cerberus loyalists that Shepard has agreed to drop off on Omega after a mutual oath of silence - she doesn't trust them to honour it but two gossiping serivcemen will be the least of her problems - and freelancers returning to their own lives.

"We'll be court-martialed," serviceman Madsen says to Smith, an engineer who's just graduated from her program, Shepard remembers.

"The Commander will put in a good word for you, I'm sure."

Shepard refrains from telling them that she has no clue how her own welcome will play out. Go back to Earth and face the music, Hackett had told her and the uniform is ready, her bags packed with the few belongings she's collected over this past year or so; Joker tells her the ship needs a little more repair but she figures it's also a convenient way of buying them all a little more time to breathe.

We all fracture in different ways.

.

Back in her cabin her gaze falls on the half-empty bottle of Irish whiskey on her desk and her hands immediately reach for the omni-tool, flicking through the inbox.

No new messages.

She isn't expecting one; she is still checking every other hour, has been since Zaeed had disappeared off the ship a few nights ago, quickly and without a notice the way she had always assumed he'd go. Assumed but not quite  _hoped_ , at least not recently. Shaking her head she turns on her computer instead to watch news from the Alliance. It's a kind of preparation that tingles in her blood, unsettles a lot of newly formed habits and ideas – she's less than certain it will work out perfectly, returning to what she would have called home three years ago. Anderson and Hackett and their plans and schemes – the way it had taken her mind apart and shuffled it together again a different shape, once. It had changed her view on everything, back when they brought her in, changed how she felt about herself, as though she had come out of it a different person altogether.

Dying does the same thing, she's found lately. As does leading a suicide mission through the galaxy while the Alliance hold conferences at the Citadel, write letters and turn papers as she watches the universe burn.

She will return to face the music, though she's no longer sure what that music will sound like.

Just as she's about to turn everything off and go to bed the screen of her omni-tool flashes yellow. Incoming message through the secure channel. Shepard looks up at the starry sky, allowing herself a smile as she reads it.

_Don't finish the whiskey, half of that is still mine._

_Z_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:   
> Yes, this impossibly slow story is now finally complete. Though I'm not done with Shepard and Zaeed just yet so while I think this can stand on its own, open ending and all, I'm bringing them along for a ride through ME3 as well. No promises of speedy updates for that, either, but I'll do the best my RL will allow.
> 
> THANK YOU for all of your reviews, PMs and gentle poking when I've disappeared off the radar for too long. You've all been very nice and supportive and I really, truly appreciate that you've read this story.


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